Recompense
by rotarydialphone
Summary: A mute Sangheili known as Daniel rallies with a band of humans and Covenant survivors in the wake of the Great Schism when all are left stranded. While dealing with his hot tempered friend who has a volatile relationship with a sassy UNSC soldier, Daniel comes to terms with his new reality and his feelings for the human girl who has shown him mercy. OCs. Gore/language/adult themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This is just a little something to flesh out things mentioned in my other story, Double Helix. There are no serious spoilers for that though this will go into more detail about the happenings on Ambrosia II pre-arrival of Zeta and 'Loram (i.e. none of those characters in this story) and can be considered a spolier in some regards. This is just for the fun of it and will probably not enjoy frequent updates...but, then again who knows? As the summary suggests, it will likely be sappy and feelingsy though I will try to keep it within canon (as much as this type of thing can be).

A special thanks to KATT9033 for the continued interest.

I will warn of lemons (none in this chapter).

This story will contain male Sangheili/female human relationships. If that grosses you out or hurts your pure, strict, canon loving mind don't read it...it is rated M for a reason. Also, this is intentionally being written as a romance, though as before there will be some rough descriptions of a war-type nature.

**Notice:** I do not own Halo, this is just me writing again in its universe.

* * *

Prolog

**Projected Slipstream Space/ Flagship _Vengeant Shepherd_**

Torsch 'Koridee stood in the middle of the wide hall looking at a closed door. The surface was burnished purple, almost black with an intricate design spanning the polished exterior. His eyes wandered the pattern, dallying as he tried to collect together what was in his mind to say. The words tread dangerously close to blasphemy. However, it was not the immediate hearer he feared, but those who may have been listening of which he was unaware. The Prophets had their ways of learning of mutterings and, with one even now on the bridge of the ship, the Stealth Major felt wise in keeping his concerns close.

As he lifted his foot and shifted to wager a step to call attention to his presence the casing lighted in a mute shade and hummed a soft melody, the door rolling effortlessly away. The Legion Master's slave froze mid-gate, his bruised and damaged face registering fear before he scurried back. As Torsch strolled forward the slave hid round the frame just inside the room.

_Sad, pitiful creature._

Only the highest ranking Sangheili of the Covenant military were allowed to have slaves of their own kind accompany them and Legion Master 'Berovai made it a point to exercise this privilege. The boy was probably the same age as Torsch's youngest son, though the slave was no longer altogether male.

Emasculated in his youth, the boy stood at the height less than that of an adult female and never developed a sturdy frame or filled out in bulk. Though he was likely well into his third decade, he would forever be just a boy. Small, he was scarred with hashed lines from his manacled wrists to his elbows with the Mark of Disobedience and was always about with his face turned to the floor. He was docile and frightened; with good reason. Though no one else on the ship would be fool enough to touch him, slaves were frequently mistreated and Torsch knew 'Berovai to beat his chattel senseless. They were the lowest of social castes in Sangheili society. Nameless, clanless property regarded as void of personhood. Their blood was often spilled freely for they had no honor to lose. A child of the House of Berov, the Legion Master's slave was a constant reminder of what the man was truly capable of.

As Torsch stepped clear of the threshold the boy curled around to dash down the hall, the door winking before sealing itself back in place. Legion Master Sicera 'Berovai stood in his office and personal quarters just beyond his desk; his back turned on the room, gazing out the great window at the pitch of slipstream. From his broad shoulders spilled the emerald fur of a Legion Master's cloak, adding to his already imposing size. Had the Prophet not insisted on making the journey with them, Sicera would have been the highest authority in the legion, as was his place. Comprised of three hundred ships of varying size, the Legion of Recompense was the largest Special Operations force in the Covenant Army. Roughly five hundred thousand Spec Ops Sangheili and their various counterparts and subordinate species made the legion their home. Self-sustaining, the legion could operate without having to return to High Charity or the homeworld and had done so for five years. But, that was before Thel 'Vadamee lost the Holy Ring and the legion had been recalled.

Casting aside the unpleasant thought of the former Naval Supreme Commander's recent sentencing, the Stealth Major walked the length of the room without fear and stood at his lord's side. The men looked out upon the gently rippling darkness of the rift in silence.

Sicera's pale yellow eyes were mirrored in the window's surface and shifted to look upon Torsch's reflection. The stillness of unspoken but mutual understanding played in the long moment of quiet. Finally, 'Berovai turned and took the few steps to his chair while Torsch remained and watched him from the window.

"I like it no more than you, old friend," the Legion Master rumbled, turning and shifting so that he might catch his companion's reaction.

'Koridee grunted, folding his arms in a comfortable gesture of insolence before turning to face his superior. The men were the same age, though situated very differently in civilian and military life. Torsch was a capable soldier; enough to get him into Special Operations. He was vicious and ruthless; so much so he had been sent to the Legion of Recompense and led a file of his own Stealth Sangheili. But, without his service to the Covenant, 'Koridee was little if anything. Not completely unattractive, he was short though broad, and was well aware the distinction of his military service was the only thing which would bring females to pay him a second glance.

Sicera, on the other hand, was the type statues would have been carved to commemorate. Even without his civilian standing he would not have wanted for mates. 'Berovai was tall and dark and had the same absolute hatred for females as most of his kindred. They were useful tools not to be considered for purposes other than his pleasure and breeding.

Sicera had been confirmed Kaidon at the age of forty and proven himself worthy time and again for well over thirty years since. He ruled his house in a manner no less strict than he commanded his legion; demanding the same level of obedience and order from civilians as he did his warriors. He was cold and merciless; nothing if not adherent to the letter of law; known to kill and maim his own if they should disappoint in the slightest. The fame of the legion existed because of him, because of the absolute pitiless disregard for all but authority he instilled in those under his command. He had risen through the ranks quickly and stood to be the army's next Imperial General when need arose.

Torsch was one of the few who knew him as more than a heartless monstrosity, though…there was little more to Sicera than that.

The men had known each other since their youth; trained in a communal setting by the old Uncles of Berov. Their friendship was one born of time and war. Torsch could say whatever he wished to his commanding officer in private without concern for rank and status. Sicera was hard, but he was not completely unreasonable.

"I believe," 'Koridee said, pausing to draw a measured breath, "it is for more than is claimed."

One side of Sicera's mouth lifted in a tiny smile, "Careful," he admonished with good nature.

Torsch snorted, "That they would insist those foul smelling beasts be part of this legion it is…" he stopped short of calling it and the other man chuckled mirthfully.

"We bide this for a time," he said with a graceful, dismissive wave of his hand, "in a few days 'Vadamee will be stripped of his name and executed and the Prophets will tire of their spectacle: they will tire of the Jiralhanae," he nodded his head thoughtfully to one side, "For now they will be placed at the head of the file," he leered, polished white fangs catching the light, "Let those mammals die first so as few of them return as possible."

Torsh's eyes widened, _'at the head of the file'_, he gritted his teeth at the idea of Sangheili following those incompetent brutes into battle. But, Sicera made a fine point, which only added to Koridee's ire, "And what of this mission?" he gestured to the window, "When the remainder of the Holy Rings are in jeopardy and the Parasite threatens escape, they send us to a human inhabited planet instead of _where we rightfully belong_?"

It was 'Berovai's turn to fold his arms as his brow ridges lowered and the set of his face took a deadly expression, "What you suggest is very close toheresy," he hissed, his tone warning his friend just how close he was coming to insubordinate ramblings.

"What I suggest is the _truth_," Torsch spat, "That the most ardent legion is sent away it is," he clenched his mandibles, "it is all _wrong_, Sicera."

The Legion Master held his glare for a few moments then his face fell and he sighed, turning in his chair to his desk. Though the thoughts were dangerous to speak, the Stealth Major was voicing nothing which had not already played over in the other's mind. There had been no indication the planet to which the higher Prophets were sending them held a thing more than a collection of pitiful humans. The scourge needed to be wiped out, but that was not a matter for a Special Operations Legion. Yet again, the Prophets seemed so sure and the idea of humans keeping relics carefully concealed was abhorrent.

"Still," 'Berovai whispered, giving his friend a pointed look, "we have our instructions. _Make the most of them_, Stealth Major."

Torsch dropped his arms to his sides and in an expression of deference dipped his face to the floor. He accepted the veiled order to kill the unwelcome additions and knew when he had tested his lord's patience enough.

* * *

Chapter One

**Beta Centauri System, Ambrosia** **II/** **New Saint Etienne Reservoir**

It was supposedly 2100 hours, give or take a few hours, and the day had gone to hell on a sled from the start. Sergeant First Class Amy Starr stood just at the edge of the city on the junction bridge that decorated the mouth of the primary reservoir. Cutting the River Alsace well short of the basin which would dump it into the ocean, the dam site held back some three trillion gallons of fresh water. Known as Lake Bordereaux, the spectacle stretched before her and was set ablaze by the light of the setting suns. Amy folded her arms across the top of the rock railing that lined the old bridge which crossed from New Sainte Entinne to North Entinne. She leaned out to look down at the cause of all her recent frustrations. The gentle arcs of tunnels which led to the principle subduction juncture for the capital city, surrounding townships, the Colonial Authority, and Army installation were barely visible above the waterline several hundred feet below. These channels webbed beneath the jurisdiction to purification plants, hydroelectric grids, and were split off in a maze of aqueducts that supplied fresh water and routed waste water to and from collection points all over the immediate area.

Ambrosia II had been terraformed in 2320 and first colonized by farmers. Most of them had been French speaking vineyard keepers wishing to take advantage of the planets rich soil and year round temperate climate. It was during early construction that the Alsace Dam and the greater aqueduct system were first constructed. For over two hundred years it had been sufficient. Fast-forward and the increased social growth owed to a booming trade economy in goods famed throughout the galactic colonies, and the system was antiquated at best and unable to adequately sustain needs at worst. That equated to a whole lot of engineer-talk adding up to a desperate need to update and expand the entire system. No small feat in its own right, but one confounded by local farmers who were raising a significant stink about how disruption would affect their yield and harm their bottom line. Not to mention open theories about the UNSC using the renovation to expand the UEG colonial AI's ability to eavesdrop and spy.

It had all turned into a political nightmare. The UEG and the colony were bickering over the details, each grasping at proverbial straws and calling in favors in order to force the hands of the other. Plop one Sergeant First Class into the fray and call her a liaison; tack on six months of negotiations to reach a timeline suitable for all; throw in three contract agencies who won bids for some three-thousand civilian contractors; and throw it against the wall and say fuck it.

That was how Amy felt, _just fuck it_.

With a project start date pushed forward and details somehow leaked to the public, the news report which had been broadcast that morning almost caused a full scale riot. Intel indicated there were three insurgent factions working together, stirring discontent, and it seemed like the whole civilian populous was threatening action to halt progress. Even though everyone doubted rebel claims of numbers, with the colonists increasingly acting and speaking against the Colonial Authority there wasn't a UNSC member one who went anywhere, on post or off, in uniform or not, who did so unarmed. Thankfully, overt violence had been avoided that morning. Civilians had been placated with the promise of an earnest negotiation; and an _'unofficial spokesman for the united rebel groups'_, whatever the hell that meant, had encouraged calm from the people and genuine transparency from the governing body. Those manipulative, conspiracy theorist, whack-a-doodles had to be up to something.

Amy was a technical engineer for shit's sake, not a damn public relations expert. She just wanted to do her job. Supposedly, most of her field training went flying out the window because chain of command learned she could string an intelligent sentence together; though she was certain there was more to it than that. Either way, it turned out hostilities were not quelled because there was a pretty blonde at the table. Amy had been pulled from the field and stuck in the middle and found herself the go-between for civilian and Corps of Engineers specialists, command, and a colony full of pissed off people taking cues from loud-mouthed agitators.

It gave her a headache.

Amy looked up and let her gaze lead her around. Resting her back against the stone wall she could just see the glint of stars emerging in the growing darkness as the suns sank lower on the opposite horizon. Some days it was hard to remember there was a war going on out there. A greater war. The UNSC was fighting a battle on two fronts while still attempting to maintain livable colonial societies. With all of the death and destruction and the ever present concern over being found so far into the outer colonized region, it was difficult to accept her place was effectively to be middleman in a squabble over updating plumbing.

* * *

**UNSCA Fort Champlain**

Checking her watch for the hundredth time, Lucinda Deléon made her way along the parameter fence. She was making good time. It was just after one in the morning and the moons provided decent lighting for her path. Branches smacked at her and thorned vines tugged at her clothing, a few catching bare skin as she ran as fast as she could. The fifteen year-old picked her way along in the shadows. Every step was one more away from set charges and one closer to the designated rally point for her group. She skittered across a wide dirt trail and hopped into a ditch, checking her watch again. Lucinda had done her part, just like hundreds of others going about their orders to help bring the UEG's control on the planet to an end, to cripple the UNSC Army unit stationed there by application of force.

Though she didn't understand much of the finer points of what was going on, she knew when the charges went off she had better be at the rally point to take up a gun and ready to kill any and everything in uniform that came her way. Some of the adults had referred to this as their 'Great Stand', the stand the rebels and sympathetic citizens of Ambrosia II took to make their voices heard. The Caddo Rebel Fighters, to which Lucinda belonged by way of her family's allegiance, were fewest in number and had been sent deepest into the installation to set snares and draw the enemy out. The UNSC was spread thin, and scraping for able bodies had left them in the open. Dissenters within their own ranks had equipped those who would breach Fort Champlain to avoid detection by the Colonial AI and given up sensitive locations open to attack.

Members of the Outer Insurgent Movement were poised somewhere in the night ready to stand with the people of Caddo while the men and women of Ashmund's Freedom Front were most armed and stood to take the city proper. Azrael Ashmund had long acquired resources, numbers, and wealth before seeking the solitude of the small outer colonial planet to spring his coup. He brought the existing, remnant factions together and all Lucinda knew was that the cause grew strong under his leadership. For once the insurgents had a real chance; and that chance was now.

Dressed in layers of rags and filthy by design, Lucinda crawled through brush and under a length of perimeter fence which wound around the military complex. She had just risen to her feet on the opposite side and made to check her watch again when a bright rip of light captured her gaze. It was like a bolt of lightning which never touched the ground, suspended in air and remaining instead of flashing away. The spectacle drew her to a stop. Craning her neck, the girl blinked as the tear drew into an elliptical corona flagged with ripples across the sky overhead. The air around her buzzed and she felt the soft electric tug as the tiny hairs on her arms stood on end. Hundreds more sizzling blue ruptures began slicing through the night. A deafening boom cracked the stillness and the ground shook, throwing her from her feet. The earth continued to tremble beneath her in an irregular rhythm which shook her to the core as sounds like deafening thunder clapped in nauseating succession. Lucinda clamped her hands over hear ringing ears and hunkered against the fence looking up to see the smooth shape of Covenant ships winking into the sky as their widening ruptures lit the surface as bright as day.

Gasping for breath, Lucinda struggled to her feet, using the chain link to pull herself up as white hot energy signatures collected along the bottom and sides of some of the crafts and bluish streaks of plasma began raining toward the surface. As she stood frozen in horror and disbelief, the bottoms of larger ships began opening up and smaller vessels poured out like a plague. It was unlike anything she had ever envisioned. There were older people in the faction who claimed to have survived evacuation in the wake of Covenant attacks. Their stories had become lynchpins to the narrative of the groups operating on her home planet. The UNSC's inability, or unwillingness, to protect its own had been a catalyst for continued rebel uprisings in the outer colonies despite a supposed war for the survival of the species raging all around.

Lines of explosives began detonating from well inside the military instillation. Screams began pealing through the night. The raid sirens sparked to life only to die suddenly. The planet winked into an eerie darkness broken only by the ghostly purple of Covenant ships and fires which licked up at the sky in the distance all around.

Lucinda found her legs and ran.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

**New Saint Etienne**

It had been quiet for hours. Lucinda didn't trust it. She hunkered down beneath a rancid blanket of garbage and peered from a crack that had rusted through a corner of the dumpster. By her rough calculation, it had been her hiding place for almost two days. She couldn't really be sure, her watch wasn't working and all she had to go on was the rise and fall of the suns; but she wasn't sure if she could trust even that because she had fallen asleep a couple of times. She had also wet herself at one point, unable to hold it any longer and afraid to move too much, let alone leave the relative safety of the big trash can. Urine had left her skin raw but she was too tired and scared to feel humiliated. Lucinda closed her eyes against a swell of sadness, despair, and the feeling of being helplessly small and alone.

She had tried to return to the rally point; but having made it with the advancing sounds of war closing in she had rounded the familiar street corner to find the line of buildings no longer existed. A smoldering crater had stood in their place, glassed edges pushing against asphalt, tumbles of bricks and melted cars littering the roadway. A body lay prone in the street unmoving and half crusted in black char.

Panic had risen like a suffocating gloom. She had nowhere else to go and was armed only with her father's antique pistol. Sinking back into the shadows, Lucinda had tried to keep calm.

_It didn't seem real._

As she had stood there staring a hand had clasped her shoulder and Lucinda had nearly screamed as she wheeled to see the bent form of Monsignor Jim and his granddaughter Della Belafonte hiding in the shadows beside her.

"The Covenant done show up," Jim had whispered in his brogue, pinching up his wrinkled face, "This change _everything_."

Della had been pale, her short blonde curls like a wild mane sprouting from her head. Her eyes wide and glassy. She had looked as if she were ready to pass out from fear.

"We go now from here," Jim had guffed.

Lucinda had nodded, a lump of tears knotted painfully in her throat, "What about the others?" she croaked, thinking of her mother and father, the rest of her family and her friends, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder as Jim led the girls down an ally.

"_Tu es con_," he said like an oath, "They all dead, love," he had answered without emotion.

Before she could find words to protest, frustration and anger rising up at his cavalier proclamation, two Grunts had waddled around a corner. The lights from their pistols washed over Monsignor Jim in the second before they opened fire.

Jim's withered old body locked up and he screamed, an ungodly sound tearing from his gaping mouth as his flesh was seared by green bolts of plasma. The smaller aliens had hooted to their unseen companions, "Over here!"

Della had turned and she and Lucinda had careened into each other in the panic to run. Heated green gasses streaked past them in blobs that lighted the walls and danced in hot succession at their feet. At some point, Della's scream had pierced through the fog of pure terror pushing Lucinda forward. She had ducked down a side ally, running until she collapsed, running until she couldn't hear anything and could barely see straight, running until she was completely alone.

The Covenant was everywhere and as Lucinda had slunk along the façade of an old apartment building she heard the high-pitched garble of Grunts followed by an Elite's bark. She hid behind the dumpster and waited for the aliens to amble away. As she had sat there plastered against the reeking garbage receptacle she had seen the green and purple glow of Covenant weapons from a nearby side street and climbed into the can to hide.

Snuggled beneath the layers of filth, daring at times not even to breathe, night had passed into day and back again. Lucinda had heard many patrols come around, and sometimes caught a glimpse of the aliens through the rusty hole in her hiding place. The last had come by what felt like hours before. Still, she could hear war raging in the distance from all around and every now and then a Covenant vehicle could be heard swooshing through the air nearby.

Though fear clutched at her gut with icy tendrils at the thought, she had to get out of there. She couldn't hide in the trash forever and a good time to try to escape and find someone who might have weapons or know what to do was looking as open as ever. Crawling as quietly as she could, Lucinda made her way to the flap of the dumpster and held her breath as she raised up to peer out.

Nothing.

She crawled quickly but quietly from the bin, hooking her small feet on the outer rails the trash trucks used to lift the unwieldy receptacle and landing on the litter covered ally floor as delicately as she could. She backed to the cool brick of the building to steel herself against trembling limbs and failing resolve.

She made it all the way up another block before hearing the chatter of Jackals and hiding beneath a pile of black trash bags and street garbage. The creatures' noise faded away but she kept her face turned to the ground and eyes clamped shut, willing herself to remain hidden. Even with her father's pistol biting into her hip from the waist of her pants Lucinda couldn't bring herself to take hold of the weapon. There would be no rising to the occasion…she was a kid, just wanting to hide until it was over.

Her whole life she had been prepared to fight the UNSC and attain freedom from the UEG and their distant rule; but she had never exchanged bullets with the enemy, never had to kill someone, and suddenly the risk of being seen by an overwhelming enemy seemed far greater than the reward of killing a few of them. She hated herself for feeling like a lost child, but that was exactly what she was.

A nearby rustle made her chest tighten as fear seized her tightly, "Psst," she heard the sound and opened her eyes, _"Mademoiselle, ici vers le bas."_

She knew some French out of necessity and followed the directions, and the sound of a male voice, to see a small basement window jiggle and swing inward with a faint squeak. A hand hurriedly waved through the opening for her to come closer. Relieved, she abandoned her hiding place and crawled on hands and knees, sitting on the ground and dangling her legs through the window. Several sets of hands grabbed at her and pulled her down into the darkness beyond.

* * *

**Flagship _Vengeant Shepherd_**

The prophet spoke at eloquent length about the blessed duty to destroy the humans and reclaim the Holy Relics. His melodious voice carried all throughout the legion to the crews which remained shipboard; those preparing to embark in the second wave; and those already victorious in the lengthy struggle to take and hold the primary city by force. His tone never wavered. Sitting atop his gravity throne on the bridge of the flagship, his words were to be an encouragement to the weary, a balm to the wounded, and a prattling annoyance to all.

Yipip slowly shifted from one stumpy leg to the other, his long Deacon's tunic swaying gently like the faithful caught up in the rapture of the Prophet's words. In truth, he could have recited the incantation himself and found it rather boring. Mostly, he had somewhere else he wanted to be and he was already running late. He was tired and his friend was waiting. But, the faithful were patient in the presence of their Prophet, or at least they pretended to be, and the Unggoy did his best to appear penitent and sincere as Humility offered up his sensuous, divine words.

When at last the invocation was complete, silence lingered after the Prophet had lifted his arms in praise to the Forerunners. He hailed the coming of the Great Journey, and called down blessing for the final attack on the humans and recovery of the relics. As the Legion Master came and knelt at the Prophets side, Yipip and all others not required were released to go about their duties. The Unggoy toddled down the halls in haste, dodging the remaining crew members, especially the leering Jiralhanae. He checked that no one was close by, peeping around corners so as to avoid being discovered before he lifted open a duct covering. Crawling in, the grate swung closed leaving nothing amiss to those who would later pass by. Yipip hoisted his tunic in an unflattering manner to make his travel easier and began to make his way through the familiar vent. Winding this way and that, the trek took him past many other passages and coverings. Some he had foiled to leave open for his sneaking and a few were convenient access paths used by the Huragok. Yipip arrived at a downward turn which gave him a view through its grate into a faintly lit cubby below.

Lifting the covering, the Unggoy dropped down carefully onto a pallet of ratty blankets and dirty pillows. The Legion Master's slave stirred, lifting his head from beneath a layer of blankets and turning his bruised, sleepy face to his friend. The Sangheili boy rubbed at his eyes and winced. Yipip flopped himself down on the shabby bed.

The Legion Master would be kept busy with the Prophet for hours and not return to his quarters until the final assault was well underway. They had plenty of time.

The Unggoy took his friends mandibles in his chubby hands and looked the Sangheili's face over carefully. One of the slave's eyes was nearly swollen shut and a vessel had burst on his cheek leaving a dark, puddled mark. Blood had oozed through and dried to the wound in a thin crust.

Releasing the small Sangheili's face, the Deacon removed a bundle from the folds of his tunic. It had become his custom to bring along various salves and healing ointments, a few bandages, and a tiny ration of food.

The Deacon passed the boy a wedge of thick, pilfered wafer and the Sangheili gnawed at it eagerly. Yipip had taken it as part of his duty to see to the slave's welfare when he found time away from official ministry. In specific terms, he found the slave's company more enjoyable than any other in the legion. The boy's voice was soft, not harsh and gravely like the other Sangheili. Unlike the remainder of the crew, he was not mean spirited. No, more than that, he was nice to Yipip. The slave's station was lesser even than the Deacon's, though susceptible only to the abuse of his master where the holy man took lumps from practically everyone, even the Kig-Yar. Besides, Yipip was certain the Legion Master was not feeding him properly. It wasn't bad enough the Shangheili leader was cruel, often beating the slave for no infraction at all, but he didn't even see to the boy's care as one would a dog.

Finished with the ration, the slave sat obediently while his wounds were tended to. Yipip's beady eyes traveled the battered face as he worked, dabbing away the crust of blood and smearing the wound with a healing balm. It was cool and tingly on the abused flesh. The Deacon returned his things to the bundle and tucked it back beneath his tunic, retrieving a worn book from a pouch on his hidden belt. The Sangheili boy's pale yellow eyes lighted with excitement as he arranged the bedding into a nest and snuggled in, pulling a thin blanket over his slim shoulders.

This was the best part of his day. The part when his friend would come with extra food and make his hurts stop. Sometimes, when his master was sleeping or away, they would play games in his tiny room, or Yipip would tell him stories about his home planet and try to teach him to read. But, this evening it was late and there would be no time for games or lessons. The Deacon would read a short story from the old book and the two of them would sleep curled together for a few hours and the slave would get to feel safe and loved for a small time before the Unggoy had to return to his duties about the ship.

* * *

The dropship hangar smelled pungently of the stench of Jiralhanae. Bodily filth and aromas generally suggesting poor attention to hygiene, those were the smells that assaulted 'Koridee's nose as he made his way to the dropship and his file. Even though all of the Jiralhanae who would be making the surface attack had been sent cycles before, the hangar still reeked of their presence. The stench choked the Stealth Major just as surely as the anger that welled up at what the smell brought to memory. That such beasts had taken the place of Sangheili during the initial assault was beyond degrading.

Torsch was a devout man, strong in his conviction about the purity of the Great Journey. Like most Sangheili who had accepted the faith, he generally held his peace in the belief that the San'Shyuum perverted their position with the gods. Such disgraceful self-righteousness had befallen men of religion for eons, it was a thing to be endured with the hopes that not all were so corrupted. Still, his anger and frustration had simmered in the many, _many_ hours as he waited for word to finally return that the city had been taken. This wrath flashed over as he rounded the dropship and saw the Deacon about his blessing of the troops.

The Sangheili snarled and gave the small holy man a hearty kick, sending the Unggoy tumbling and squealing across the deck.

That was another thing: the San'Shyuum saw _lazy miscreants_ as preachers of the faith.

'Koridee's men looked at him with detached expressions at this outburst, all well accustomed to his volatile temperament.

With a deep breath, Major 'Koridee straightened to his full height of just over seven feet, which was not comfortable given Sangheili's natural posture. He walked the line of his men addressing each with simple eye contact as a measure to reassure himself and gather his bearing now that some of his irritation had been spent.

Everyone before him was a stealth soldier. All highly capable men clad in black and burgundy armor and armed with standard weapons and tools of the position. It was their duty to push past the line of war and follow mapping coordinates to the hidden relics. His previous reservations aside, 'Koridee's faith in the Journey was strong. It was no less infuriating, but he had come to accept the presence of the Jiralhanae as simply a temporary test of conviction.

* * *

**New Saint Etienne/ Outside Fort Champlain**

The Covenant had torn the city apart. Blood and guts and bodies and charred remnants were everywhere. The attack had come from all sides and lasted for days before an eerie silence had blanketed the battered and burned city and townships. A distant skirmish would peal across the growing dark and be put down with frightening swiftness. A dog would howl or a scream might ring out, but otherwise the Covies had made good on stamping the humans into submission, driving them into hiding, taking key locations, and slaughtering any who tried to stand in their way.

Amy leaned against a window frame looking out at the outline of buildings in the distance. Fires had burned themselves to smoldering embers that trailed smoke into the darkening night. Every now and then she could just catch the wink of a Covenant weapon somewhere in the distance on a rooftop or through a window. She was two blocks away from Fort Champlain but felt no closer than she had been when the crackling and booming of slipspace ruptures jerked her from bed.

It felt like months ago.

Letting the curtain fall back, Amy winced and muttered a curse against a nauseating wave of pain as she rolled along the wall and propped herself away from the window.

In relative terms, she was seriously lucky. In the frantic struggle to make it from her civilian apartment to the Army installation, the Sergeant First Class had come upon several other soldiers and they had tried to make a legitimate run at getting to post. Not all of them made it this close.

The streets had been thronged with civilians grabbing at the soldiers and begging for help: chaotic masses asking what to do, how to get to the evac station, why the raid sirens weren't going off, what had happened to the power grid, why vehicles were suddenly dead and useless.

Amy didn't know what to tell them, she was just following training: training that said to get her ass to where the weapons and ammo were.

No matter how hostile the local relations had been with the governing body, everyone seemed determined the UNSC members had the answer and had dogged their heels.

Like magnets, as more soldiers made their way into the street they collected together in groups and held close even when Covenant troops began tearing through the civilians. Dropping into alleyways they did their best to fend off the aliens as utter carnage was wrought in the city streets. The stench of burning flesh and the shrill screams of doomed people permeated every sense as the hooting and roaring and worting of the enemy seemed to overcome even the sound of weapon's fire.

A few armed civilians and some rebel groups made a good stand with the soldiers, but in the end, it was only Amy and a green private who had been left to take refuge in a crumbling building as day waned into night, again.

Cory Trice was propped sitting against the wall in the corner, holding a Covenant rifle like a child would a stuffed animal, a line of drool trailing from his open mouth. He looked as rag-tag as Amy did. Like practically everyone else who had been taken by surprise, he was in a mish-mash of civilian clothes and battle uniform, with an arm resting on his assault helmet and strategic bits of body armor still in place over battle dress pants and a singed gray t-shirt.

In her haste to haul ass from her apartment, Amy had jumped into a rumpled pair of tac pants and managed to throw only her armor vest over the sheer silk top she had worn to bed. Boots and helmet were all she managed to add to the clothing before retrieving her personal rifle and cramming every extra loaded mag she could find into her pockets then scurrying out to the street.

In the end, it was the silk camisole that had done her in. She had almost made it round the brick corner of a storefront into an ally, but a well aimed shot from a plasma rifle had sizzled past, ghosting the unarmored curve of her waist below her tac vest and melting the fabric to the flesh from below her ribcage to the top curve of her hip. Despite how much the burn stung; or how dirty the wound probably was; or how she could feel the ooze of her own damaged skin and fluids from ruptured blisters gumming the fabric at the waist of her pants, that was the least of her present concerns.

The creepy stillness which had grown with the drawing night was beyond unsettling and in it Amy felt she could practically see the minutes tick painfully by as panic ebbed and rose in alternate measures. She could tell herself a thousand times she needed to kick Trice from his peaceful slumber so they could get a move on, but that didn't change the fact that none of the missiles from Nantes Arsenal had launched, or the fact that the comms systems in both of their assault helmets were, and had been, as quiet as death.

Her only guess was that the Covies had gotten wise and hit the area with an EMP and wiped all power and the colonial AI. That meant there had probably been no distress call. And, even if there had been, it could take weeks, or more likely months, for backup to arrive. Ambrosia II was on its own and now, with the initial attack having reached a lull, the Covies would sweep in anticipating finding Forerunner artifacts. When they didn't find any the planet would get glassed into oblivion just like all the others before it. The people could keep fighting but the only things standing between them and certain death were five 10 ton Nassau surface to space missiles; and they weren't going anywhere without an AI or electricity to run the manual launch sequence and the damn codes.

At best, Amy knew that no matter what she did in the next few days or hours she would just live to die in the planet's eventual glassing.

It could have been worse, she supposed. Huddled in another room of the now dilapidated row house was a pair of armed civilians who had come along just before dusk. An older woman called Grand-mama Larouche, who didn't speak a word of English, and her massively pregnant granddaughter, Penny. They were the single most armed civilians Amy had come across and she couldn't help but wonder if they were in fact rebels or had raided a rebel safe house. She didn't care, having civvies along would slow them down but she couldn't just let….aww, hell, who was she kidding, they weren't going anywhere but to glassy graves.

The one Amy felt the worst for was Penny. The young black woman was almost six months pregnant with twins she would never see or hold. In light of that, Amy didn't feel she had much in her own life worth missing. She had been raised by her grandparents when the courts awarded them custody but they were both dead. There had been few men in her life and none worth wasting the brain power to think about. She had no kids, no family she claimed, she had thought about getting a cat once, but had settled for a plant she promptly killed…and her career was about to die with her so, that was pretty much it. While Private Trice continued to snooze the last hours of his life away and Grand-mama Larouche read passages from an old paper Bible aloud to Penny in the other room, all Amy had to comfort her was personal emptiness and the memory of a dead houseplant.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

**Enemy Military Installation  
**

Chatter from the battle net had risen to its usual crescendo and fallen to the low and intermittent murmur of victory. Because of the Legion Master's cunning, most of the Jiralhanae had been sent with the first wave to take advantage of initial human numbers and arms. Unfortunately, it had taken longer than anticipated, _much longer,_ to cut through and break human control, despite the surprise of the attack. As Stealth Major 'Koridee and his file disembarked the Phantom which set them inside the colonial authority, scores of human remains greeted them as evidence of a rigorous resistance.

Reports indicated the initial assault had been slowed by the sheer number of humans which flooded the area. The tenacity, if not bravery, of attempting a defense which hinged on overwhelming the opposition by force of numbers did occur to 'Koridee as respectable. Sangheili troops had reported stronger resistance within the authority. Unfortunately, they also noted the Jiralhanae had been prone to losing focus when provoked by even unarmed humans and had spent hours trying to chase them down in bouts of brutish and unnecessary posturing. There was little doubt this lack of focus needlessly wasted time and was the cause of delay in calling for the second wave.

It was unusual establishing control of a strategic location should take so long. It was not required that all humans be eradicated, just those who stood in the way and posed a threat to mission success. Ordinarily, operations which encompassed the recovery of artifacts extended no farther than the time necessary to secure access to the quarry. All remaining humans would be exterminated in the planet's glassing and were not worth the effort to pursue them. This operation had already been hindered somewhat by the Jiralhanae and, despite a growing excitement at moving in to take the relics, Torsch felt a hint of unease at having so many of the unpredictable beasts assisting in holding the line.

* * *

**Flagship **_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

Yipip made his way through the ventilation duct, scurrying along to one of many grates the Unggoy had left as a backup for undetected sneaking. He had left his friend and set off to the closest exit only to find a group of Kig-Yar lingering and in no apparent hurry to leave the area. The Deacon had to backtrack and loop around through a confusing and long alternate route. He had almost made it to his destination when voices drew him to a shaft which opened into the Jiralhanae's quarters.

"…must be crushed. The High Prophet of Truth has commanded their allegiance but 'Berovai and his men are too _dangerous_, they will be afforded no opportunity to bend…", that was the Prophet's voice.

The Deacon crawled ever closer and from his place near the deck could see the shadow of Humility's throne and a pair of clawed, furry feet. The Prophet spoke again, "The Age has already begun to pass and it is time the remainder of the Jiralhanae take their rightful place."

Yipip felt a hint of fear settle into his stomach.

"As you have said it, Holy One," though the Deacon didn't dare creep closer to see, he knew without a doubt the voice belonged to the Jiralhanae who served as pack leader for those sent along with the legion. Izakkus was a foul, degenerate creature who leered at Yipip's friend with open, hateful lust when 'Berovai and the other Sangheili were not looking.

"Understand this," Humility said calmly, "every one of them must perish, from 'Berovai to his slave, let no Sangheili live. In the hour of their death you will stand at my right hand as master of this legion and even the Hierarchs shall know of your faith."

Yipip felt his guts turn at what was being said. The Prophets moved to betray the Sangheili, the highest of the Hierarchs had ordered it, his friend was in danger.

Izakkus' rumbling answer broke the Deacon's thoughts, "Communications have been rigged. The trap is already sprung, my liege."

Yipip backed away from the tunnel.

"It is well then," the Prophet said like a soft, holy proclamation, "Finish it: take these ships. When next we meet, you will etch the rune on this planet's surface and send the last of these Sangheili to hell with the humans."

With that, the Deacon backed quietly from the grate and scurried away.

* * *

**New Saint Etienne**

There were nine people crammed into the flooded basement. Two were Ashmund's men and the rest looked to be random civilians. Lucinda had been found as she had hoped, but it seemed she was no better off. Between them, they had precious few weapons and no provisions. A woman and three small children; an elderly couple; and the rebels, Marc and Frederique, were hunkered down tight but in dier strates. The three with able bodies discussed going out to scavenge for weapons and try to find some food and clean water; and they had to venture out and try to make contact with others.

Lucinda went with the other two rebels when they set off. As they slunk along in the shadows an eruption of violence sprung from the blanket of relative quiet that had lingered for hours. It was more than the Covenant coming upon a clutch of humans; it was louder and distinctly frenzied. No sound of human weapons rang out; no shouts in English or French; just alien bellows and weapons. As the small group moved along, several Elites were seen dashing past an alley opening and a few seconds later a Brute and a handful of Jackals and Grunts were seen giving chase.

Marc peeped around the corner and ducked back with a confused expressed, "They fight each other," he muttered, almost in question.

Frederique and Lucinda only shrugged, taking this as perhaps a bit of good fortune. With the Covenant seemingly busy killing off their own, the humans made it to a corner station, the kind which was a suburban mecca of petrol, late night snacks, and alcohol and tobacco products. Lucinda had ducked down an aisle away from the shattered windows, plucking snack cakes and wrapped pastries from a shelf when Marc hissed for everyone to be quiet.

It felt like her heart would pound out of her chest as every tiny sound crept into her ears. She could hear footfalls outside the building; the chatter of Grunts and Jackals punctuated by the grumbling of a Brute; and the eerie electric crackle of their comms.

Slowly creeping to the edge of the aisle, Lucinda peeped around a display of potato chip bags and saw a Brute sniffing the air while Jackals picked at street garbage and fought over a dead cat. Two Grunts waddled to the broken window and raised on tiptoes to peep in. Afraid to move and risk being seen, she watched as one nudged the other with an elbow and whispered something.

His enunciation of the word _'human' _set her insides on fire.

But, the Brute barked at them and both creatures yelped and waddled away. Lucinda sank to the floor and hugged her bounty for a few moments, trying to get her breathing and heartbeat under control. Her arms tingled and her toes felt numb in the wash of adrenaline.

"_Mademoiselle,"_ Frederique's dingy face appeared at the end of the isle, "We go," he whispered in heavily accented English.

Deléon rose to her feet and began creeping to the end of the aisle in a hurried crouch. The shelf was canted at an angle and she could see Marc standing just outside the back door as the blue light of the moons fell across him and the alley beyond. Frederique was waving frantically as Lucinda rushed for it.

Then, her face slammed into an unseen barrier and her head was thrown back as she staggered to keep her footing. She dropped cellophane wrapped cakes and clutched her nose as blood gushed through her fingers. Looking up, the expressions of horror on her companion's faces flickered through a shimmering haze as a veil of liquid silver broke directly before her and active camouflage dissolved to reveal an Elite. He rose from his haunches and turned to her.

Black armor was scuffed and dented and there was a neat hole in his chest plate leaking a trail of drying blood down his torso. Lucinda could see the shine across one of his orange eyes through a shattered patch in his helmet. Her breathing became ragged pants as the creature cocked his head. She felt her mind begin to swim as he lifted a hand to his face and placed an index finger against the nose of his closed helm in a gesture she recognized.

Despite this, she opened her mouth to scream and the Elite grabbed her, striking forward like a coiled snake and wrapping one hand around her head and closing the other over her mouth. He twisted her up against his chest as she wriggled and flailed, swatting at him with a pastry.

The door slammed from behind them and the Elite snarled, pulling Lucinda with him as he backed down an aisle out of view of the windows. He grappled to hold her against him as gunfire and shouts in French came from beyond the back door in the alley. Lucinda could hear the squawk and squeal of Jackals and Grunts as they returned fire. Yelps and growls seemed to start coming from everywhere as the Elite continued to clutch the human girl, backing into a corner and activating his camouflage, closing them both in a rippling shroud.

She could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back as they listened to the sounds of feet scuffing outside with the yapping of aliens. There was a growling bark of a Brute and Lucinda squirmed against the Elite still holding her, bucking and trying to free herself to run, tears falling from her eyes and pooling with the blood still dripping from her nose. The creature held his arm tight around her and hushed into her ear as she sobbed quietly into his hand.

* * *

"Uh…what the actual fuck is going on out there, Sarge?" Cory Trice asked.

The Private and Sergeant First Class Starr had woken an hour or so before when fighting broke out anew, only this time there was hardly a sound of humans involved. The two had risked scurrying up a skewed fire escape and had to climb through a window to get to an internal stairway which would take them to the rooftop. There, Amy watched through the optical of a sniper rifle Grand-mama Larouche had insisted she take and Trice looked through a spotter scope Penny had offered to behold the Covenant attacking…themselves?

Whatever the hell was going on down there, the Elites had been taken by surprise and were getting their asses handed to them. Something had shifted and the Brutes were turning on the Elites. Grunts and Jackals seemed unsure of which side to be on, but most picked the winning side: the Brute's side. Then, a few humans could be seen rallying behind the Brutes and numbers distinctly shifted. The Elites no longer had the upper hand. Their forces were being pushed back and mowed down. The aliens no longer seemed concerned with the humans but were more preoccupied with each other.

"I have no idea," Amy said.

Cory was silent for a moment, "Why would they do that?"

Starr just shrugged from behind her rifle as a line of civilians took advantage of the alien's diverted attention and dashed through the open front gate of post, "I don't like it," she added, squashing the hope that had risen in the private's voice.

"Maybe they've just…or maybe it's…" Trice tried to talk it out, but it was obvious there was no explanation that would do, "Shouldn't we like…uh…."

Amy turned her head and looked at him.

"I mean," Cory continued, still watching through the spotter scope, "this is good, right? That whole, _'the enemy of my enemy is my friend'_ thing, yes? That means they're on our side now."

Amy squinted at him and he turned to look at her pleadingly, "Right?"

It would have been nice to be able to believe that, like apparently so many others did. But, this war had been going on for over two decades and it seemed a bit unlikely the Covenant had decided to stop exterminating humanity and had instead just turn on their own. Having read the declassified accounts from Harvest, Amy had no delusions the Brutes had suddenly decided to make nice. No, there was something else going on and they just happened to be getting a front row seat.

Cory returned his gaze to the spotter scope then whispered, "Oh, _shit."_

Amy lowered her cheek to the rifle just in time to see the last of a cluster of armed civilians and a few soldiers and police who had been flanking a duo of Brutes get shot down for their aid in attacking the Elites. Something clicked together in Amy's mind, "The enemy of my enemy," she repeated Trice's words.

"What the hell is _going on_?" Cory asked, sounding genuinely distressed.

"I don't know, but come on," Amy muttered, rising to her knees, collapsing the bipods and slinging the rifle before collecting her feet and heading for the stairway, "We're going to go and see if we can't make a few friends."

* * *

**Flagship **_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

The Unggoy ran, or, stumbled his way through the ventilation shafts, his tunic catching under his hurried feet and sending him sprawling several times in his haste. Over and over his mind played the conversation he had heard. Images of what the Jiralhanae would do to his friend made the methane lodge in his throat. Loosely held faith in the Journey and once complete devotion to the Prophets failed him at the thought of 'Berovai's slave set upon by Izakkus. The Sangheili were unkind, callous; but their nasty temperaments and poor dispositions paled in comparison to the outright vulgar brutality of the Jiralhanae. Now, a new level of barbarism stood to be unleashed and set as rule. Unggoy being cowardly by nature, Yipip would always choose the lesser of two evils. Besides, the Legion Master may have been unduly harsh and abusive but he wouldn't kill his slave; and he would never allow the slight boy to be used as a sexual plaything.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Yipip swung aside a grate and jumped down to land on a pile of familiar, ratty bedding. He rolled and waddled and stood in the small, dark floor space and without any consideration for the ramifications of such a move, the Unggoy burst through the door and spilled out into the Legion Master's quarters.

Sicera 'Berovai was sitting at his desk, one elbow on the polished top and his chin in an upturned palm as he cradled the other hand against his cup of hot tea. The aroma tickled his nose. Exhaustion pulled at him, the kind born of mental fatigue and physical inaction. With the last of his ground forces deployed he was anticipating another half cycle for the recovery of the artifacts, then he could meet with his commanders before heading to the bridge for the ceremonial glassing under the watchful eye of the Prophet. Though he was rested, 'Berovai had not slept since before the engagement began. He did not have a habit of taking such leisure while his men were on the battlefield, a few hours alone was sufficient.

It was not as if having an Unggoy rush flailing into his quarters was a surprise: that would imply a level of thought that such a thing might happen in some twisted, alternate universe. No, having the Deacon tumble uninvited into the Legion Master's personal quarters from the slave's lodging was simply not something his mind had cause to imagine as ever being a possibility. When it happened, Sicera watched from his desk in stunned silence as the panting, panicked creature froze as if suddenly appreciating his blunder. 'Berovai was so shocked it did not even occur to him to be angry. While certainly not amused, the Legion Master did feel a twinge of sick interest at this happening.

"Deacon?" he rumbled in mock amiability, closing his hands casually around his steaming cup and regarding the increasingly frightened Unggoy with a blank expression.

Yipip first stood staring at his friend who stared back with a look of utter horror from behind the bit of armor he was polishing, then the Deacon startled with a squeal when 'Berovai spoke. The Unggoy swallowed hard and tried to think straight as the seconds ticked by. He thought he would pass out when the Sangheili leader slowly rose, any initial entertainment clearly exhausted just that quickly.

"My lord, I have come because…" Yipip rasped, finding his voice unwilling in the face of a massive warrior who casually lifted an energy sword hilt and activated the weapon without so much as setting down his warm beverage.

Sicera paused when the Unggoy hit his knees, hands clasped as if pleading, before falling on his face with a scream, "They have betrayed you!"

The Legion Master let his eyes study the trembling creature in a heap on his floor. What blasphemy the holy man had spoken put a chip in his irritation and piqued his interest as he deactivated the sword, "Rise," he snorted.

The Unggoy did as he was told, still visibly shaking and struggling to his feet on wobbly, uncooperative legs. His gaze lingered on the sword hilt still clasped at the ready in the Legion Master's hand.

The Deacon's words began to take hold and the gravity of this unprecedented happening sank in; but 'Berovai contained his unease and sipped at his tea. Then, casually setting the cup, but not the sword, aside he kept his eyes on the Unggoy, "Speak," he said in a low rumble, "but mind your words, while I have no want I surely have less qualms with killing a lowly servant of the _Prophets_."

Yipip suddenly felt the need to pee himself but he held strong. His little courage was bolstered by the reminder that 'Berovai had never been a believer in the Great Journey. He was just another Sangheili wooed by the prospect of power and had no love for the Prophets or their pretty words.

"It was a trap," the Deacon hooted.

'Berovai folded his arms across his wide chest, "Go on," he sneered.

"The Prophets conspire with the Jiralhanae," the Unggoy said, "Izakkus is to be Legion Master. Truth has already blessed the slaughter," 'Berovai straightened, his eyes flashing fury. While Yipip was sure the Sangheili was going to kill him he blurted, "You are too dangerous, Humility says you all must die! It has already begun!"

'_I believe…it is for more than is claimed,' _his friends parting words snaked through Sicera's mind as a flash of rage ignited his veins.

* * *

**New Saint Etienne  
**

Lucinda remained crushed against the Elite long after the sound of footsteps and hoots of victory faded. Eventually, the alien slowly began to release his vice-like hold. Lucinda slid down into his lap and, despite her fear, she leaned her head against his stomach, refusing to unclench her hands from the creatures big arm. A liquid shimmer slid across her as active camouflage receded and the Elite shifted to set her on her feet. She continued to cling to his hand and he didn't move to detangle his fingers as he gracefully rose and looked down at her.

"Where are your weapons, human?" he asked.

She blinked up at him then, "I don't…" she paused, pulling her father's pistol from beneath layers of clothing at her waist band, "This is all I have," she said almost apologetically.

He cocked his head at her offering, his orange eye looking from her to the antiquated handgun before he reached out and lifted it from her grasp. He nodded, a gesture which surprisingly resembled appreciation, before he shook loose her hand and moved carefully across the scattered room to a side door.

"Wait, why did you do that?" Lucinda whispered as she followed close behind, "Why did you…"

He snaked his head around, eye narrowed and shining from behind the broken visor of his helm, "Did you wish to die?"

She gaped at him, "No."

"Neither did I," he said solemly, "Are there more like this?" he asked, lifting her father's pistol.

Lucinda nodded, "Some, but…"

"Then we go to where they are. You will show me," his tone did not invite an argument, and truthfully, she didn't have a better plan.

The two of them crept from the store and Lucinda did her best to retrace the steps taken to get back to the basement hiding place. She felt a bit guilty for not thinking to grab even a morsel of food for the others and more than a little concerned at leading an Elite right to them.

As she began down the sloped alleyway, she realized her concerns were nowhere close to what they should have been.

Blood and bits of flesh spilled from the open door and singed black marks dotted the exterior walls and ground. With legs trembling, Lucinda dared to peek into the hide-out through the canted and destroyed door. The Elite materialized from his camouflage as a tiny squeak escaped her throat.

Everyone had been torn to pieces…blown to pieces. Amid a soup of foul water; blood and innards; random, fleshy bits that seemed splashed onto the walls were scraps of clothing and a tiny shoe floating upside down. She turned to her new companion as if for an answer and one side of his head exploded.

Purple blood, brain matter, shards of helmet, and flesh and bone hit her in the face and Lucinda screamed as the Elite pitched forward then back and collapsed at her feet. She instinctually clamped her hands over her eyes, too late. A stinging pain radiated from her left orbit overriding the burn of tiny scrapes and cuts and sharp fragments lodged in her skin. Lucinda could feel the deflated sclera of her eye smashed against her fingers as vitreous ooze and blood puddled in the cup of her palm. Backing away in half-blind agony, she stepped through the door into the basement. Her feet slipped on gore and she fell awkwardly and slammed her head against the concrete. Darkness closed in on her periphery as the burly mass of a Brute filled the doorway and consciousness mercifully slipped away as he stepped forward into a pillar of moonlight with a predatory smile.

* * *

As the humans had sensed some perverse victory at hand, Sangheili had been cut down en masse. The fresh corpses of his brothers could be found scattered along with the bloated remains of humans as Torsch crept down side streets. Along the way, newly dead humans were evidence that the Jiralhanae had turned back on their temporary allies to slaughter them. Confusion had ensued and human and Sangheili alike had been driven to the necessity of retreat in the wake of diminishing arms and overwhelming opposition at dwindling numbers.

The Major and his file had just made entry into one of the human buildings when the onslaught began and, because of their stealth, had remained out of sight. At first they had been able to aid their brothers unseen but not completely undetected. He had lost three good men to the madness which followed and countless others whose names he did not know lay dead.

Confused, tormented, enraged, bereft…Torsch conceded and led the remainder of his soldiers from the instillation to the littered, crumbling streets of the human city. His misery and turmoil was only compounded by the lack of contact with or from the legion ships.

He could not understand and the devastation of what he _had_ seen swirled against refusal to believe his own eyes. 'Koridee told himself this was just temporary, that as soon as he and his men could lay hands on sufficient arms they would take up again against the treacherous Jiralhanae. He reassured himself this was not the move of a coward, though atop all else that was how he felt.

It now appeared a few of the humans had already backed some of the Sangheili and, in continued desperation, had taken a stand to keep the Jiralhanae from engaging in the hunts they were wont to take up. A small collection of Kig-Yar and Unggoy remained faithful to their legion and the blurred line of allegiances appeared to slowly become clearer. Otherwise, it was insanity.

Warriors and lesser soldiers shucked their comms systems to avoid detection and better hide in the outer city. Their numbers could not be counted if their comms were dark and the Jiralhanae would actually have to work to find them without the integrated tracking systems giving them away once in range.

Torsch felt as if his senses were both exhausted and on fire. He did not trust himself, he could not trust anything. So, when he and his men had holed up in an alleyway to ready scavenged weapons, allow camouflage to recharge, tend their numerous wounds, and a pair of humans had stepped from around a corner, the Stealth Major had at first stared at them in open numbness.

_Would it be more honorable to die at the hands of humans than Jiralhanae? _

'Koridee and a few of his men got to their feet but hesitated to take aim at the humans which simply stood there looking back, neither one making a move to wield the weapons they clearly possessed. The shorter of the two took careful steps forward, walking until she was within striking distance of Torsch. The Stealth Major held a barely active plasma pistol but was absolutely certain he could conserve his fire and pistol whip this brazen human female then tear her apart with his hands before she could bring her rifle to bear.

"I know you don't like our weapons, but I promise, _this,_" she said evenly, jiggling the rifle balanced across her shoulder, "is a whole lot better than _that_," she flicked her chin toward his pistol and hefted the long gun, offering it to him.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

**New Saint Etienne  
**

The Sangheili had not yet decided to trust the humans who came bearing weapons; but as they eyed the newfound allies cautiously, a smattering of shots rang out to quickly convince them. Acting in accord, both groups scattered and sought cover, digging in against the presence of a tenacious young Jiralhanae leading a band of opportunistic Kig-Yar. The lesser were disposed of with minimal effort and usage of ammunition. Watching their fellows fall after being urged forward caused several of the weaker species to retreat once they realized their lives were of no value to the brutish beast driving them forward. That and the prey was far more armed than anticipated. The Jiralhanae was enraged to the point of stupidity and gaped and howled at his scampering underlings. The humans were remarkably in tune and the beset group moved as a whole to back farther down the tight alleyway. Dumb with outrage, the furry young beast gave chase.

Having pilfered and donned poorly fitting Sangheili armor, the Jiralhanae was more difficult to down, but not invulnerable. Torsch soon realized one of the humans was disturbingly accurate with a projectile weapon, at least at fairly close range. One of the furry monstrosity's knees crumpled in a burst of blood and bone as armor gave way and the creature pitched forward. He hit the concrete with a roar of both frustration and pain and the human female heedlessly stepped from behind cover. 'Koridee took little notice of the fact that her pistol shots were true into the Jirlahanae's snarling face, he was more focused on the stream of Needler shards streaking toward her from the dying animal's weapon.

It was purely impulse on his part, given the Sangheilis' collective situation and 'Koridee's shattered state of mind. In his world, women were a viciously defended resource and male pride compelled him to ensure she was not hurt. Betrayed in that moment by instinct, the fact she was a human completely failed to register.

Launching himself, Torsch swept her gracelessly from her feet out of the line of fire, causing her to lose her weapon and helm. A few hot shards peppered and brought down his already weakened shields as he cleared the alley opening. The passage was narrow and he wound up slamming into an adjacent wall, doing his best to protect her unarmored head and shield her while he gritted his teeth. Sharp, minute fragments traversed the lines in his armor slicing through the layer of his bodysuit. It was a painful reminder of one of the many reasons female Sangheili were not allowed in combat. Males were predisposed to being protective at the risk of their own lives and safety even when it was insensible or completely unnecessary. And, at the moment, all of those tiny shards of Needler shrapnel were _unnecessarily _imbedded into his skin because of his damnable sense of honor and her female aggrandizing_._

For Amy, there was a moment where the world stopped and everything became a numb blur of white. No sound, no feeling, just a blink of nothing as her brain shorted out in surprise at her body being assailed full tackle then slammed to a sudden, hard stop. All of the air was forced from her chest and panic rose as her lungs struggled against muscles temporarily stunned into paralysis. Adrenaline ebbed and her chest burned while her mind screamed for oxygen. She wondered if this was how she would die: smothered by an Elite.

The rise and fall of his chest as he panted for air was a torment in the seconds it took for her body to right itself and finally give her the relief of drawing a full breath. It hurt and Amy was fairly certain she now had a few broken ribs to add to the festering burn which was crying its own neglect and abuse. She involuntarily slacked against him, feeling the smooth plating of his armor press into her exposed skin as he cradled her head. It took seconds for some sense of order to return to her brain and Amy became uncomfortably aware of his closeness; the way his imposing body was intrusively molded against every inch of her own. His chin was tucked securely against her head, and thick arms were wrapped around her. She was effectively secured by an alien cocoon.

A human shout of victory and few Sangheili worts of newly appreciated camaraderie sounded out, but Torsch wanted little more than to curse the woman he had held still bundled in his arms and pinned against the wall for the_ irrational_ _female _she was. The admonition was there, adequately formed in the language she had spoken, one of the handful of human languages he knew; welling up with as much indignation as he could rightly keep under control, but when he lifted his head and looked down at her she was blinking up at him as if stunned and struggling to regain the breath he had no doubt knocked from her. A trail of red blood slid from a split in her lip.

She looked up at the Elite who still held her pinned against the wall and there was a crack and a pop as his helmet came unsealed. Plates at the fore separated at seams and receded mechanically back into the armor covering his head to reveal most of his face.

"_Oh, God_," she heard herself groan.

It wasn't so much in revulsion at his alien appearance as surprise because he was not what she expected. There were there usual freakish differences, but his complexion was a light shade of bronze and not overtly…scaly. She knew Sangheili were diverse in tones and textures but she was not prepared to see one close up or with skin that so closely resembled a human's. Tiny iridescent freckles which dotted his snout and mandibles added an almost childish look to his intently curious expression and completely belied the inherent danger he would have presented a few short hours before. Then, as if that weren't enough, Amy looked up and found herself awed silent when she gazed into the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen in any creature's head. Pale sage orbs were cut with inky slits ringed with bright violet that radiated out and fractured the green like a slipspace rupture.

"Your mouth is bleeding," he said in awkward but passable English. His voice was so deep it did little more than involuntarily notify her of how frighteningly male he was…which just reminded her of how really, very, too close he still was.

"I'm fine," she squeaked.

"You are injured," he responded undeterred, reaching toward her face. The gauntlet retracted into the armor of his forearm revealing a freakishly not-quite-human looking hand.

She squirmed and shied away from him as best she could with wide eyes. Torsch paused, realizing she was afraid. He gave her an amused head tilt, "I am not going to maul you, human," he mocked.

Amy found her voice and did her best to cover anxiety and an unsettling sense of _other weirdness _the only way she knew how, "Good," she said, clearly struggling to breathe, "because that's more of a _second date_ thing."

Cognizant thought ceased and Torsch tried to reason that she was _not _making some kind of perverted implication. She looked up at him and one side of her mouth lifted into a guileless smile and he felt his temper sizzle. Anger that a human would attempt to engage him in this wicked female sport was dampened only by mortification because of how historically and completely inept he was in dealing with women.

The Elite released her, jerking away with almost as much violence as he had snatched her up. With no time to ready her feet, Amy let out an _eep _as she hit the ground with surprised ankles and unprepared knees, her legs buckling beneath her. He made a startled expression and seemed to reflexively step forward with terrifying speed and grab her by her upper arms to keep her from falling, hauling her up against his chest.

She struggled to get her feet beneath her and turned her face, full of open entertainment and confused trepidation, to him again, "What is it with you and the touching?" she smirked, shaking his hands loose, "Can't a girl just be helpful and not get felt up?"

He let go roughly and stepped back, purple flooding across his mandibles and snout. Amy couldn't help the broad grin that spread across her face.

_Oh__, holy shit, he's blushing._

Her expression was both a threatening display of teeth and shamelessly flirtatious and 'Koridee felt a deeper wave of heat wash across his skin anew at both her glee and the implication.

The armor of his helm protracted and snapped closed over his face, "Do not flatter yourself, _human_," he hissed, sounding very put upon.

Amy straightened and moved to retrieve her pistol and helmet, "Uh-huh," she laughed, ineffectively concealing her amusement at his expense.

Torsch audibly seethed, "I would not dishonor myself with _you_," he growled as she plopped her helmet back on her head and holstered her pistol.

Amy turned back feigning disappointment, "Oh, gee," she mused with caustic sarcasm, "and I was so hopeful."

* * *

He was not a man disposed to fear. Every waking moment of his adult life had been spent plotting the day he would see the UNSC overthrown on a colony world, himself placed in its stead, and those remaining bending to his will. It had taken years, decades of scraping and murdering his way to the top of an insurgent movement; lies to civilians; undermining of the UEG; acquiring wealth by all means necessary; and obtaining resources enough to make that goal a reality. Despite this, the crawling sense of his own demise, and the end of all his efforts, nestled in the pit of Azrael Ashmund's stomach. As he had watched dropships descend and take up Brutes in number, he could not help but notice they converged only on the largest ship lingering in the sky and increasingly took only ranking Brutes. Though past experience told him he would likely see plasma bombardment begin within the hour of this evacuation, something odd about the whole happening presented itself as a potential, personal opportunity.

The aliens did not move to withdraw all troops, or to recover their armament; and not _any_ of the more lowly species which had given loyalty in the bizarre internal strife were retrieved. Many Brutes remained even after several movements. The more he observed, the more Azrael came to see those left behind clearly moved to act as if on specific orders.

He watched the partial and intermittent exodus from the cracked and shattered window of a middle building apartment. The now shabby hide-out once towered to the east of the city proper. It wasn't Azrael's palatial abode, but then, those accommodations no longer existed. The building he found himself taking up in was poor by comparison, even before being ravaged by the Covenant attack. But, it provided a lovely and informative view.

The floors below crawled with rebel fighters who had converged when their best laid plan was usurped by the need to live. Even now, with traditional communications gone, stragglers wandered in as scouts were sent out to gather as many of the insurgents and discarded weapons as possible.

Having the powers of persuasion and all the conscience of a sociopath, Ashmund had never wanted for having his most basic desires met. Well, vices more than desires, Azrael's only true cravings were for power and women. Standing in the dilapidated remains of a once beautiful apartment, watching as a summer storm gathered momentum in the distance with flashes of lightening and moved to blanket the city, it had appeared as if his greatest desire was to be wrenched from his grasp. Only, as rain began to fall and the lower floors of many other buildings were shrouded in steam and obscure darkness, it appeared as if what he wanted most was suddenly making itself as open and available to him as one of his many mistresses.

Turning from his view, Azrael clasped a hand thoughtfully to his chin as his eyes moved calmly across the room, "Joseph," he said, bringing the slumped, dirty, rumpled man near the far door to his feet. More than twenty years Ashmund's junior, Joseph Edwards was his right hand, if ever he was to acknowledge one as such, "assemble a scouting party and send them to me."

* * *

It was raining. An angry storm had crawled across the sky to cover the war torn region in almost perpetual darkness. Summer rain born of an atmosphere aggravated by electrical disruption came down in sheets of sweetness that stifled the foul smell of rot and death.

Torsch sat on the floor near an open window. He was on an upper story of the dwelling he and his troops shared with their collection of human companions, trying to sulk in privacy. Sitting with his legs stretched out and a human rifle propped against the wall nearby, he watched with arms folded across the window sill from the cloak of active camouflage as dropships once again made lazy descent through the clouds in waves.

'Koridee felt a sense of growing emptiness. The movement had begun the evening before and the last of his sanity had begun draining away with the realization of what was happening. First there had been the blooming hope of reinforcements sent from the legion, and some right to be set from this madness; only to make the rooftop and see the troop transports lifting off from well within the protected barricade with the higher ranked Jiralhanae before taking up to _Vengeant Shepherd. _Movement had been made in short bursts, and Torsch could only guess that the beasts had found the coup of overtaking the deadliest Covenant legion ever in existence much more difficult than they had planned.

The notion should have made him feel _something_, be it pride or outrage, hope or disgust, but the Stealth Major found he felt an empty, bottomless pit of nothing. Though his mind could still not fathom what had happened a part of him insisted that everything he had known and worked for was slowly coming to some unknown, unforeseen end. He had been faithful, but for some reason his gods had forsaken him. The more time he spent with the humans the more he became convinced the most recent addition to his punishment had a name and her name was Amy.

That woman had to be the work of devils.

Why the gods had deemed it fit to torment him this way was beyond him. First the Jiralhanae had been sent along with their awful stink; then the brutes had turned traitors and attempted their own genocide in mutiny; then 'Koridee found himself reduced to _retreat _and accepting help from _humans_ only to be mocked by a…a…a _female. _

He did not trust women and he did not like humans, so in that she was twice damned. He should have just let her get her fool self killed. With a snort of self-disgust, Torsch recalled a painful hour of blindly digging Needler shrapnel out of his hide. If the burn of the entire situation had ended there he might have been able to take it.

It was insult enough he had stooped to accepting their assistance. At the time, doing something had seemed preferable to doing nothing but now, as the junior members of his remaining file conducted themselves like infants with new toys, his second-in-command sat increasingly smitten with the pregnant human woman, and they had all sank into a familiarity with these humans, Torsch wondered if he would not have been better off killing them before committing suicide.

They had even shared _their names _with these creatures. It was offensive enough his men had let slip his clan name but there was no way in nine hells he would voluntarily give any one of those humans the opportunity to call him by his common name: he would sooner die.

To top it all there was Amy making him extremely uncomfortable. It was not just because she was vulgar by the standards of his culture but, just when he found himself disgusted by her enough at the thought that she was a _human_ his senses reminded him she was _female_. He hated even being near her. He especially hated it seemed she was determined to think him some sexual miscreant. He did not like the way she made him feel. That was more than he wanted to deal with and far too much like having to tiptoe around women of his own species.

Though their last exchange had shut her up, much to his satisfaction, he knew she would find a way to make him regret it. She was a woman and it was only a matter of time until she twisted his words and threw them back at him.

* * *

Amy wiped a fine layer of soot and ash from the cracked mirror with a grimy hand. Bracing herself against the top of the chest of drawers in an upper room of the row house, she looked at her reflection in what little light was provided from a candle lit on the chest top. She was beyond filthy, splattered with dried blood and smudges of dirt and ash. Her hair was in a frazzled bun that had partially come loose. A dingy lock hung in a knotted clump to her shoulder. Despite the grime, all she could see were the usual things she had long learned to hate. They were the reasons she usually avoided mirrors. Her mouth was too wide and her lips were too full, her big doe eyes looked huge on her face and were dirty shade of blue.

Her whole life she had been told she was beautiful, but because of what had happened the summer she turned nine, Amy had never been able to see it. All she saw was a woman who was painfully thin and looked weak by the fault of genetics, with striking facial features that stuck out like beacons. Those things were what most men noticed, and had been the very ones her stepfather had complemented the most.

Amy closed her eyes and tried to keep a wave of nausea from overtaking her. Unhooking the catches on her tac vest, she shucked it to the floor then pulled a glass bottle from a pant pocket. She had retrieved the whisky from a downstairs cabinet and it looked like she was going to need it now for more reasons than she originally planned.

_Memories, _Amy's mind sneered as she broke the seal and proceeded to drain half the contents in an unbroken series of chugs, pulling the bottle from her lips and tipping it down her side. The sensation made her breath catch as one hundred proof soaked into the t-shirt she had tied around her waist and made its way across raw, damaged skin. She would have seriously killed for a shower and clean clothes and actual medical supplies and not to face whatever was lurking under the impromptu bandage.

Before the Covies had turned on their own and she and Trice had raced to the roof, Amy had found some clothing in the row house and made use of all the meager bathroom medical supplies to be found. She had doused the burn with peroxide and simply prayed the black t-shirt she wound around her waist was clean enough. Other than that, she didn't want to think about how gross the burn could be by now or how much this was probably going to hurt. And, she was sure not going to think she had been goaded into facing all of that by a split-lipped, ass-bag.

Being offensive was a defense mechanism honed for the last thirty years. And, well, watching an Elite squirm had been kind of funny…all things considered. However, despite being comically embarrassed at first, Stealth Major Koridee had significantly upped the ante after hours of brooding.

Once everyone had settled in, it had not taken long for remaining caution to turn to curiosity. Most of the Elites had struck up a tentative friendship with Trice over the collective cache of weapons. They had even included him in on their banter and because the Sangheili could speak and understand English, a type of male bonding had ensued which obviously transcend species. Stealth Major Dick-weed had abjectly refused to participate. She didn't really blame him at first and had felt a little guilty watching him sit and dig Needler bits from his arm. She had intended to offer to help but an angry hiss to one of his own who came near had changed her mind. After that, he seemed content to look sullen and pissed off and only speak to his men in their native language. Then, he began pacing the floor like a like a caged animal.

The other Major, Kote, had abandoned the collection of weapons to watch Penny in rapt silence. He had sat on the floor with his chins propped on the heels of his hands staring at her round stomach. Finally, when she eased down onto a couch, he had scooted as near to her as he dared and reached to touch her belly, quietly asking when her egg would be laid. Amy had never seen Penny smile up until that moment and though the woman tried not to laugh, Grand-mama Larouch took enough notice to prompt for a translation. The old woman hooted her own amusement and Kote had straightened, cocking his head inquisitively at their obvious delight. That was when Stealth Major Ass-hole had paused and snorted something. Despite the fact that their language had all the melodious quality of rocks in a blender, the disdainful tenor of his voice was unmistakable. Amy had turned and glared at the reflective surface of his helmet.

"What did you say?" she questioned, having clearly heard the word 'humans'.

Kote angled his head the other way, still innamored with Penny's round middle, "He says humans do not lay eggs because you are mammals," then he had clicked his mandibles, "He said that you whelp your young _like dogs_."

_Like. Dogs. _

Though she would have preferred to think the file leader had been reaching for an acceptable comparison in the context of Sangheili and human evolutionary differences, Amy could not quite shake the feeling the Elite with a distinct social deficit had been deliberately being a dick. Despite her irritation, she had let it go.

But, he didn't.

He had grumbled something else that sounded equally hateful and, by the uncomfortable glances of the other Elites, Amy got the impression there was no chance in hell he hadn't meant either remark as an insult. She looked to Kote who vehemently refused to translate and Major Shit-head's crap got the better of her.

"Care to share your thoughts with the rest of the class, _'Koridee_?" she asked sardonically, with as much venom as she could muster. Though he had refused to give his name she had overheard the others speaking to him and when he paused mid-step, planting his feet and rounding his shoulders in a very alpha male gesture she knew she had guessed right and struck a nerve.

As they stood in an uncomfortable silence, she had gotten the distinct impression he was thinking of all the many grotesque ways he was capable of dismembering her. Refusing to back down but unable to contain her discomfort, Amy had crossed her arms and tried to look petulant as she forced herself to keep glaring at him.

The armor on his face had clicked and retracted back and, to her horror, those beautiful green eyes had slowly raked across her from her face to her feet and back in an extremely predatory fashion. The move had left her feeling tingly and gross. If his plan had been to make her feel small and dirty and remind her of the distinct size and gender differences between them, it worked.

"You should see to that injury," he growled, "even _dogs _have the sense to clean their wounds."

_How…what?!_

She hadn't exactly been afforded a lot of time, or the means, to agonize over an extremely painful burn; excuse the shit out of her if she had been more concerned with _saving their asses_.

There were many things she had thought to say, but suddenly faltering courage had somehow won out. Sucking in a breath, Amy had stormed from the room and decided to raid the liquor cabinet she found in her previous snooping, intent on getting some actual rest by any means necessary. She still didn't know what was going on, but now she had shit from her past creeping into her memory, and that jack-ass's words had made her worry about her wound despite her previous determination to be fine.

With alcohol warming her stomach, Amy untied the t-shirt from around her waist. Skin peeled and air hit once protected nerves. The world tilted sideways and everything went completely black.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

**New Saint Etienne**

"_Do you really have to go this time, daddy?" she asked, trying unsuccessfully not to cry. _

"_Yes, pumpkin, I really do," Major Brandon Starr said, stepping to swoop a nine year old Amy up into his arms, "but it's just for a little while, I'll be back before you know it," he tweaked her pixie nose playfully. _

Something cool touched her face and Amy tried to shy away. Though she felt as if she were flailing with all of her strength to swat off touches that threatened to bring her back to reality, threatened to take her father away again, she barely managed to lift her arms above the bedding and choke out, "No, don't go…" She was trapped in a hellish nightmare with all the emotional pain of a child who grew up to be a woman who remembered all too well what was to come and didn't want to face it again. The cold touch was gone and the brief flash of the present slid away and _they_ were there…

…_Those two men in uniform. The special uniform, not the one the soldiers wore every day: the one with the shiny black hat and lots of brass buttons. At first her heart leapt because through the frosted glass of the front door she thought one of the men was her daddy. But neither of them were; and they talked in quiet voices; and mom cried; and the men left. _

"_Momma__, when is daddy coming home?"_

"What is wrong with her?"

"_Amy, this is Jeff…" _

"Shush…make yourself useful and find some more blankets, she's sick."

"_Give him a chance, he's really nice,"; "He's not my daddy!"_

"Help me sit her up…Amy, drink this."

"_Amy, this is James…"_

"I do not understand."

"_He's a fireman, he can show you the fire trucks,"; "No!"_

"Dehydration, general exhaustion, possibly infection…Your kind doesn't get sick?"

"_Amy, this is Demetrius…"_

"There should be no infection and I have no reference for this type of sickness."

"_He's a Marine, a pilot, doesn't that sound fun, sweetie?"; "Why did my daddy die and not you!" _

"N'Rule, Kote, go check the buckets on the roof, I need more water."

"_Amy, this is Greg…"_

"Were you a…a doctor?"

"_You can't be like this to everyone, Amy…No one will want a woman with a brat…I swear, if you were a dog, I'd have you put down,"; "I hate you!"_

"I was a school nurse. Help me sit her up….Amy, Amy listen….Amy, drink this."

_Time had no meaning as the grief of an all-consuming loneliness and sense of abandonment closed in. In mockery of her heartache, she could feel hands holding her, keeping her captive in the nightmare as a parade of men who could never take her father's place and stole her mother's attention played out. Names and faces blurred together; sight and sound fluctuated like ripples on water. Someone forced her to drink. They were talking. She could hear them over a feeling of loneliness and fear, a little girl left home alone while her mother was out with 'friends'. Mommy changed, never seeming to acknowledge her child was hurting too. _

"Drink this."

_A face loomed into her mind as real as if he were right there: the monster from her living hell, "Amy, this is Todd, he's a policeman…we're getting married."_

"No! Get him away from me!" Amy shrieked, knocking the drinking container from Penny's hand sending water slinging across the room and the cup shattering to the floor. Starr nearly came up out of the bed, swinging as hard as she could with uncoordinated arms like a woman possessed.

Penny Larouche and Stealth Major 'Koridee each grabbed for her, both surprised by, and unprepared for, the sudden outburst. Amy had been out for days. Her clothing was slicked to her body and fine hairs clung to her sweat covered face. She wasn't nearly strong enough to get up and go anywhere, no matter what demons were chasing her through her delirium. Amy tried to spring from the bed but her body couldn't keep up with her mind's ambition and 'Koridee wrapped an arm around her waist, easily catching her as she pitched across his arm, half-limp as she fell. He hauled her back up into the bed and she kicked and wailed and scratched weakly at the Elite's face. Penny placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and tried to talk her down but she wasn't having it. Amy looked at them but it was clear she didn't see _them_ at all. There was so much terror in the other woman's faraway eyes it made Penny's heart ache.

"Don't touch me," Amy sobbed, body going lax as she slipped away from the present again with a whimper.

'Koridee shuffled back a few steps, face turned to the floor, clearly believing she was speaking to him and doing his best to look nonthreatening.

"Todd don't," Amy murmured with a pained expression, a single tear escaping her eye to slide down her reddened cheek.

A sense of miserable uselessness and revulsion filled Torsch's stomach as he stood watching her loll her head back and forth as Penny shushed and cooed. He did not want to think about what was going on in her mind.

When she settled, Penny stood and stretched her back as Grand-mama Larouche came in making a tisking sound and muttering in unintelligible French. As the young pregnant female stepped away, Amy reached for her hand and cried in a hoarse whisper, "Please, momma…I didn't mean it..."

* * *

_**Legion of Recompense**_**; Flagship **_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

Izakkus licked the hastily stitched wound on his forearm and grumbled angrily to himself. He sat crouched on a storage container in the ship's hangar bay glowering at a decrepit bunch of Jiralhanae, Unggoy, and Kig-Yar as they milled about. They were all exhausted, disheartened, and he was barely able to hold any sense of cohesive control. Fortunately, dropships were inbound from the surface, again, hauling in more reinforcements. It was unpleasant enough to have had to admit his available men were incapable of wresting control on even _one _legion ship, but add to that the fact the Sangheili crew were able to successfully drive the coup back and Isakkus soon realized he had to recall some of his ground forces. Days had turned, and it seemed he would have to recall every able bodied man to insure success. Each minute that ticked by the pack leader became more and more livid…and increasingly unsettled.

Legion Master 'Berovai had proven crafty beyond the Jiralhanae's comprehension and that was infuriating. Though the Prophet's instruction had been enough to compel most of the lesser species to betray the Sangheili, the element of surprise had clearly been lost. 'Berovai had emerged in a rage and had rallied his own men with terrifying determination and an unexpected offensive.

Humility was now dead but that was the least of the pack leader's concerns. Though he desperately want to forcibly take his rightful place in control of the vessel, he could not help but understand all the men who had stayed to take control under his command on the bridge had met the Prophet's fate. Jiralhanae corpses littered the halls. Lines of Sangheili had formed and managed to keep their leader and the vessels controls protected. It was unthinkable that Izakkus could not take this ship with the crew he had reserved.

All because of_ one_ man.

'Berovai had seemed completely mad. In the few moments Izakkus had personally observed him in action the Sangheili had displayed a level of malice the Jiralhanae had never see of the species and could not help but grudgingly admire; though it nearly cost him his own arm.

Izakkus realized his troops were completely outmatched when a clutch of Sangheili slipped past and barged through defensive positions to rush the command center. Izakkus had led a charge intending to catch the group between his own forces and those already stationed inside but it did not turn out as he had imagined. While six Sangheili took through the doors and began their own slaughter, 'Berovai had turned alone and faced the hoard advancing down the hall. Unggoy and Kig-Yar had faltered, fearful even to fire on him and fled outright. Izakkus had watched from a distance, anticipating seeing the Sangheili Legion Master cut down by two strapping young Jiralhanae only to see the man tear through them as if they were but helpless cubs. He was completely incensed; beyond all rationality. The look of determination in the Sangheili's eyes had made Izakkus' blood run cold. The pack leader's resolve lurched in that moment and he had stood dumbly holding a rifle and watching as 'Berovai tore through the men with nothing more than a single energy sword and a short plasma blade.

One burly trooper was cleanly beheaded and the other disemboweled. Both were sent to their knees in a collective pile of one another's fluids. Then, covered in blood and clumps of singed fur, the Sangheili had lobbed the bloodied head of the decapitated man at Izakkus like a sickening grenade. He had been so stunned that the Legion Master had almost been upon him when his senses returned. Still numb and disbelieving of what he had witnessed, Izakkus had only the time to shield his own neck, feeling the blade of an energy sword cut through his hide clean to the bone as he fell back firing into the madman. 'Berovai retreated to the bridge, leaving Izakkus to scramble to his feet and run away.

That disturbed the pack leader. The Legion Master would not have been injured enough to force withdrawal from the fight, even if Sangheili were ever known to do such a thing, which they were not. Though 'Berovai was doubtless smarting from his wounds it didn't make sense. Yet, the Sangheili _had _simply let his intended usurper leave. Reports now indicated the command center was barricaded from within and somehow bands of Sangheili had fortified all along the halls leading to the entrance. The Prophet's mangled corpse had been tossed out in a heap with murdered Jiralhanae and other dead as just another bit of fleshy cover.

'Berovai still had control but Izakkus knew the Sangheili's personal honor would not allow him to abandon his warriors. By now the Legion Master would have accessed the communiqués: he would know the extent of the betrayal. The Jiralhanae's only remaining hope was that the breadth of the Sangheilis' defeat and implications for the entire species would be so grievous to one so proud as to cause him to make a mistake.

But, it had not yet been so.

Izakkus and his men had functional control of the legion but so long as 'Berovai was in control of _Vengeant Shepherd_ the ships would be going nowhere. It was beautiful, how much control the Legion Master retained; magnificent really. The fighting ships could not be turned against one another except on the flagship's command and _Vengeant Shepherd_ retained all directive codes for ship movement and slipstream drive activation. It was infuriating.

It was an impasse but Izakkus was determined to have his legion, even if it cost him every last one of his own men. He would have revenge and he would give 'Berovai to the Hierarchs, not in chains but in pieces.

* * *

**Outside New Saint Etinne**

The thing that became most apparent was that survival depended upon being useful, or desirable in some way. Even then, there was no expectation or promise. Usefulness could easily be translated into one's ability to be food. Lucinda, with only the sight of one eye, found herself often wishing she could see nothing at all.

Members of the dominant species wished her to live and, truthfully, she had not yet resigned herself to death. After unknown days, when time seemed not to have meaning, she still had hope and quickly came to understand there was something basically pleasing about her from the Brute's perspective. Their fondling of her long, dark hair was repulsive; they smelled and she wanted to vomit when they were near; it hurt to move and she couldn't think beyond surviving that same day…and she dared not wonder why she was determined to.

There were those who were cared for, fed, their wounds tended to, provided meager means and opportunity to bathe, were clothed: the useful and/or _entertaining_ ones. Even in captivity there was a caste system. Lucinda fought guilt over being in the supposedly more fortunate group; guilt because so many others were killed or allowed to die in agony of their wounds; guilt because her own people saw her and the others like her as traitors…as if having the means which insured her survival were a sin, as if escaping one set of atrocities made the others forced on her somehow less. Those with voice would lash out with words which added to her humiliation. She found even condemned people damned their own.

While she lived in this somehow enviable position, those unable, unwilling, or unwanted to subjugate themselves were killed and eaten, their carcasses discarded like garbage. Men, women, children; this enemy had no consideration for any. The Brutes would have them trussed up and cleaned like game, some of them not dead when the process began. These big, furry aliens had a preference for meat, and torture, and were horrifically sexual creatures. As days stretched on there were so many awful images and physical memories filling Lucinda's head she had only differing sets of horror to retreat to inside her mind when the Brutes decided it was time to enjoy her.

For all the ways in which she was prepared to be a fighter, and possibly captured, there would have been nothing which could have prepared her for the barbarism of these captors; nothing to prepare her for the hatred of her own kind because she wanted to hold on to what was left of her life, hatred because she wouldn't just lay down and die. She learned not to think about it, to recede into herself, to carve out chunks of meat and serve her captors without acknowledging what was being done: what was on those platters; to not feel and acknowledge when they touched her. It didn't matter if she cried or screamed or fought. The only thing she could hope for was to block it out so that, should she escape, she would not have to remember everything.

Then, it had begun. Many of the Brutes were taken up, apparently called back to their ship. Numbers dwindled while those left seemed enraged. Human slaves and subordinate species began breaking down most of the horror camps under watchful eyes and leaving the city while some defiantly stayed behind. Lucinda found herself chained to the other girls and walking while armed aliens secured their exit with what armament and vehicles they had retained. Eventually, miles from the city after days of walking, following innumerable human deaths from exhaustion and exposure, after joining a camp beneath the largest ship in the sky; without leadership to reign in the remaining Brute's lust for killing and torture, the horrors resumed in earnest.

* * *

_**Legion of Recompense**_**; Flagship **_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

Sicera 'Berovai sat in the Shipmaster's chair, turned so he could keep his eyes fixed on the command center doors. The room reeked of blood and an electrical burning which had lingered for days. Though the bodies of the condemned fallen and honorable martyred had been removed, the odor of death seeped up from lines in the floor panels where fluids had soaked through and putrefaction began to take hold in unseen places. The Legion Master was alone if only in his thoughts.

Four warriors had survived the forced taking. They had carefully seen to the bodies of their murdered brothers and tossed the dead traitors out into the hall with their ilk before assisting 'Berovai in what remained to be done.

Izakkus had yet to lay siege to the bridge, but the Legion Master knew it was coming: he would be ready.

Communications had been spotty at best, but the shipside Sangheili had maintained their private channels for a fair amount of time: long enough for Sicera to warn them; long enough to lay out strategic traps and keep the Jiralhanae held off; long enough to make sure Izakkus would never have this ship. Silence had finally overtaken the comms and the Legion Master knew it was all but over. It could take days yet, but very soon all that he was and would have been would come to an end.

'Berovai heaved a sigh and bowed his head. It was not honorable to be taken prisoner, let alone to _allow _one's self to be taken prisoner, but this was _his _ship. It bore the name of his choosing, and the only way in which he could rightly avenge those who had fallen was to make Izakkus believe his victory was complete: to make him drunkenly dumb with hollow triumph. Sicera could not bring himself to destroy the vessel, nor did he have it in him to leave or glass his own men. It had to be this way.

The four remaining Special Operations Sangheili were sitting idle at terminals, equally resolved to their fate, preparing to leave him to join their brothers. He would give them the opportunity to die with honor, what would be left afterward was his alone to bear.

The Unggoy Deacon and Sicera's personal slave were huddled together beneath a console looking terrified and exhausted. Not long after claim had been laid to the bridge the two had shimmied down from a Huragok maintenance shaft. They had been most loyal during these difficult times, going out and espying the location of the enemy, helping the soldiers to know which areas of the ship were taken and which were open, and carrying out sabotage which could not be insured from the command center.

From the corner of his eye, 'Berovai saw the boy shift and bury his face against his Unggoy companion, quietly sobbing. In that moment, something like pity streaked across the Legion Master's conscience. He and his men were well prepared for whatever would happen once the Jiralhanae got hold of them but the slave; the boy would be set upon and completely rent, likely to death. He was as scared as a virgin female for much the same reasons.

Sicera drew his face into a sneer. It would not do to have such a thing befall one of his own kind, not to one so loyal…even a slave. The merciful thing would be to kill the boy before the beasts could have at him; but the men of Berov were no more disposed to acts of mercy that they were prone to notions of sympathy. He could use this to some advantage, even if not his own.

The Legion Master stood and retrieved the bulbous conical of an active camouflage device from a pocket. "Come here, _boy_," he snarled.

The slave sniffed, collecting his feet and doing as he was told. When he stood looking up at his master, 'Berovai held the instrument aloft and indicated for him to take it.

As he reached for it, Sicera barked, "Deacon."

When the holy man approached the Legion Master addressed them both, "You will go straight to the escape pods," he hissed, "As soon as you are on the ground make for the west, where the suns will touch the horizon at night fall," he retrieved a mapping transmitter and handed it to the Unggoy, "This can help. Find my men and get far away from this ship. Do you understand?"

The slave looked at him with huge yellow eyes, his face stained with tears and fading bruises while the Deacon just stared. Then, they both nodded ever so slightly.

"_Speak!" _Sicera snarled.

The boy flinched, and the holy man hooted, "Yes."

"Good," The Legion Master said, reaching to clasp the boy's shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. Though the slave steeled himself well against recoiling from the much larger man's touch, the tremor which shook him gave away fear. Sicera cursed. The boy did not understand and was likely too tired and stupid with fright to appreciate any intended meaning. 'Berovai had only himself to blame for that, but the fear he worked so hard to instill and had once taken pleasure in eliciting now clawed at him.

He grabbed the boy roughly and sent him stumbling toward a vent opening with a squeal. The Deacon crawled in first and the boy looked back, clearly frightened and unsure. This was cruel in its own way, but it had to be done. If there was any chance they could give assistance to his surviving soldiers he would take it. Even so, in his state of resolve, genuine compassion slithered through Sicera's perception again. He sighed heavily and the slave sniffed back tears. After all his master had done to him, he looked reluctant to go. What was left of 'Berovai's disgust for the creature he had spent thirty-odd years tormenting cut loose. He could not make this any different; there was no time left to find some capacity for regret; and there was only one thing out of all the many he had taken away from this creature which he could ever give back.

It was fitting, as it was something Sicera was going to give up any right to for himself.

"Boy," he rumbled softly, pausing when the slave turned to him, "Your mother had named you Naaco."

* * *

**New Saint Etienne**

Torsch did not know what to make of this. Amy seemed to be freezing one moment then burning up the next; mumbling incoherently. Sangheili did not have these types of illnesses. Amy was injured, that much he had smelled and seen for himself, and it had somehow lead to whatever this was. And _this _was…awful.

He had been sitting in the cloak active camouflage when she had stormed into the room shaking violently. She had pulled a candle from a pant pocket and lit it with a small fire starting device then stood watching herself in a mirror. She had tried to steady herself against the dresser top but seemed to give up in favor of removing her armor. 'Koridee had been a bit surprised at how small she really was without it, then she began removing even more clothing and the Sangheili lifted himself silently from the floor intending to slip away; not comfortable being there and realizing she had no idea she was being watched. He was angry but he was _not_ a pervert.

She was consuming an amber colored alcohol when he paused at the door. From the corner of his eye he saw her pour the drink across her side and ineffectively contain a whimper. Curious, Torsch looked back as she unbound her middle with a gasp of pain then listed heavily to one side before crumpling to the floor.

He was of the mind to turn and leave her like that but he could not force himself to do it, he could not stifle worrisome instinct. Cursing himself under his breath, 'Koridee had stepped to the bedside to see her lying on a heap, clothing peeled away to reveal a mass of singed flesh.

It made him wonder how humans managed to maintain their status as prevailing species on any planet with such delicate skin. Spanning her side in a mark the size of his outstretched hand, across lower ribs to the waist of her pants, an outer dermal layer had collected in channels of gray and white against raw, inflamed tissue. Blisters strained against collected yellow fluid or had ruptured to leak down her flesh. Being familiar with this kind of injury, he had done what he knew how.

That had been days ago and he could not bring himself to leave the sight out of morbid curiosity and self-punishment.

"The Jiralhanae have been gone for hours, Major," Kote 'Hakkamree stood in the doorway and broke Torsch from his thoughts, "It seems most of those left behind have abandoned the military instillation and left the city entirely. There is an abundance of movement. Many of our own still appear to be…"

Torsch interrupted him with a dismissive _hum_ in response, not really processing the other man's report. 'Koridee's mind was elsewhere.

Amy was wounded, and in a fundamental way which had nothing to do with the burn she had sustained and the subsequent infection. It explained so many things yet muddied the already clouded and confused pieces of his reason. Humans were a plague, a galactic infestation. They were overgrown parasites who were incapable of understanding their own destructive presence. That was what he had always believed. Any sense of bravery or logic or honor form their actions was an aberration. That they were capable of technology was simply a fluke, an accident or that stolen from other species, stolen from the gods. They were pests. They did not have _feelings._ They took and used and destroyed…that was what he had always been taught. They were unclean, unfit for the Great Journey.

Still, what he had witnessed and heard in the past few days was enough to chew at his sense of basic respect and leave him uncomfortable with the assessment that humans were just as capable of feeling as his own kind…and their females were just as capable of being emotionally damaged and lashing out in one of the only ways he was painfully aware Sangheili women could.

Though Amy's crude words had stung more than she could possibly have known, and Torsch desperately wanted _not _to think it possible, he slowly came to accept she was just a female who had been severely hurt beyond current physical injuries. It was a thing he wished he did not understand, a thing he had strategically avoided most of his life, the only reason he was actually thankful women had little interest in him. It meant he would never have to face the helplessness of a crying wife who had been taken lawfully against her will by a Swordsman, or have to explain the circumstances of his own personal torment.

He had dealt with all the wrath and heartache of physically wronged women he cared to. He had done his duty to his bloodline and twice endured courteous courtships and the whole complicated charade that was procuring a mate for a common man. In his experience, women were only of two kinds: those who had been unharmed and were dismissive of all but physical perfection in a mate or those who had suffered at the hands, and in the beds, of Swordsmen and became temperamentally volatile and generally hateful toward men.

Given Amy's distasteful manner, Torsch had judged her one of the latter of her own species and what he had expected was an eventual fiery display of female rage intended to cut back at him deeply, most likely in the presence of his file. Women, after all, had a thing for the public humiliation of common men who dared to degrade them or give them threatening looks, and he had done both. What he had not been prepared for was what had actually happened.

Amy had indeed turned his words against him, but not in a way for which anything could have made Torsch ready.

In her delirium, she had said many things, but what had made his hearts stop and almost caused him to become physically ill was when she had grabbed onto Grand-mama Larouche's hands and bawled, begging not to be taken somewhere and forced to do something. She had turned and looked right at him, no, directly _through_ him as she wept miserably, "_I'm not a dog._"

The old human woman had glared at him and embarrassment and confusion had collided with the anger and distress he was already struggling to keep hold of. He truly did not know what to do or think, could not trust his own judgment. _She was just a human. _Her imprudent and uncouth commentary was disturbing. Annoyance and venom had seemed an appropriate response in light of the base reaction she caused in him. Being angry was much easier than thinking he was completely losing his mind. But…but now…he had to face the fact he let himself become something he never intended.

It was not in his nature to be cruel to women: that was a noble's game to play.

Besides, even at her age, oh hells, even at _his _age, his mother would beat the scales off of him if she knew he had ever, in any way, deliberately degraded a woman. It was not a matter of social right, Mother considered it undignified.

Pushing back his misery, 'Koridee looked to his second-in-command.

"Kote," he said, shifting and pulling his active camouflage device from a pocket before tossing it to the junior Stealth Major, "Take Eeth and the human male. We cannot continue hiding here doing nothing, but we move only when it is certain there is a safe place to receive her."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

**New Saint Etienne/Fort Champlain **

A constant, rhythmic beeping intruded into the black void. Amy could smell various antiseptics and tasted the rubbery flavor it left on the back of her tongue. "No," she croaked weakly, her brain clinging to bits of a nightmare as delirium refused to fully yield to wakefulness.

They had taken her somewhere, she could hear people talking, she couldn't stop them…No, she wasn't a child anymore, they couldn't do this…

Someone shushed into her ear and a hand petted her arm.

_A nurse in rumpled green scrubs with a mask dangling from one ear, hair net canted and blonde curls askew, glared down at a thirteen year old Amy. She kicked and thrashed and clawed at the woman's face before a hammy hand grabbed her arm from behind and jerked her roughly back down. With lines of scratches across her brow the nurse reared back and slapped Amy hard enough across the cheek to rattle her teeth and screamed, "You little bitch!" Amy felt her arms and legs pulled at painful angles as her wrists and ankles were bound tight to the rails of an antiquated gurney, "Stop your crying and behave." _

Amy opened an eye and saw a blurry figure tending the shape of an IV stand, "Don't," she pleaded.

_She was in her mother's car, in the backseat bundled in a blanket and feeling hollow, drugged, and in more pain than a child's mind could imagine as ever possible. Todd was driving and she could see her mother's fingers twined in his as they held hands on the center armrest, "You did the right thing," he said, the memory of his voice slicing through Amy like a blistering, cold knife. _

"Why is she not getting better?" the voice came from outside her head this time and Amy knew she knew it, but her mind couldn't work out how or who it belonged to. There was an odd memory of piercing green eyes and opalescent freckles against bronze skin before a gray haze closed back in.

"_She's getting worse. I have to take her to the emergency room." _

"_And tell them what, Shelly?"_

_Amy was in her bedroom, tucked in her princess bed with the pink ruffle and childish decor that was all too young for her. She could hear her mom and step-dad talking. It was summer. She remembered because school was out and she missed being able to get away._

_Todd's voice made her skin break out in gooseflesh, "They said she'd be a little sick."_

"_Her fever is out of control, I have to take her…"_

"_AND TELL THEM __**WHAT**__?" Todd demanded._

"She _is_ getting better," Amy wasn't sure she knew that voice at all, "It's just an altered state of consciousness. Sometimes she's with us and sometimes she isn't, but mostly it's a patchy place in between…She messed up her brain chemistry…We've got fluids and nutrients going…She'll be okay, just give it time…Major 'Korid."

'_Korid…_

'_Koridee…_

"_Even dogs have the sense to clean their wounds...If you were a dog I'd have you put down…how could you let this happen?…she seduced me, the little whore…it's a place in Guinn, no one has to know…you whelp your young like dogs…it will be like it never happened…"_

Amy sucked in a breath and forced her eyes open, looking up at rectangular, industrial acoustic tiles. They were a muted shade of blue-gray in the failing light and flecked with oblong black marks. She gasped for air like a woman afraid of drowning. Penny Larouche's kind, pudgy face intruded into her field of vision for a brief second before blackness swallowed everything back up.

_Mom was struggling to carry her down the stairs, and crying. Mom had a black eye. Todd was gone. At the curb there was a dirty sedan in a painful shade of yellow with black checkers on the doors and hood. It smelled like fish and dirty laundry inside. They had to stop twice so she could throw up. _

_She woke and saw a sweetly smiling black woman in a pretty blue pant-suit at the bedside. Her hair was in a fluffy bob and she was talking to a tall, thin doctor, a _real _doctor, with spiky red hair. _

"_We've contacted her grandparents on Earth, if she discharges before then she'll stay in a nice, safe home until they can get here…I see someone's trying to wake up…Amy, can you hear me?" _

"Amy? Amy…"

"_We're pursuing charges against both of them."_

"Amy," a bright penlight shown in her eyes as someone forced open her lids one at a time, "Sergeant Starr," the light intruded again before there was nothingness.

The blank gulf slid away and Amy opened her eyes with little resistance from her body, finding herself looking up at those rectangular tiles. She could hear thunder rolling off in some unknown distance and feel the stickiness of sweat clinging to her skin all over. As her senses collected, Amy could feel a soft breeze and the muggy heat and bland cleanness that always followed a summer storm. The antiseptic smell was real, and so was that awful taste in her mouth, and that beeping sound…and the IV line taped to her left wrist. She was only aware of the passage of time because Penny wasn't there as she had remembered and it was darker, shadows were longer against the walls than before…whenever _before _had been.

A pounding headache seemed to well up from nowhere and Amy groaned, reaching to touch her forehead. Everything hurt; every joint and every muscle screamed at the thought of movement. Her limbs were heavy and her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. She didn't know where she was and she sure had no idea how she had gotten there. The last meaningful thing she could drag to her mind was wishing she had told that Elite son-of-a-bitch to go straight to hell.

She slowly sat up, body objecting, and froze with a start at the sight of Stealth Major 'Koridee standing before an open window, helmetless, arms folded as he stared out. For some reason it was freakishly comforting, as if her mind had simply conjured him there.

"Um," Amy managed in a croak, drawing his attention.

He turned and blinked at her, an oddly relieved expression twisting his face.

Amy slid her legs from the bed, unaware of her current state of dress, or significant lack thereof, as a wave of nausea well up dangerously.

For a moment, Torsch stood motionless watching her carefully stretching from the bedside. His eyes slid down her body, across her completely bare legs to her strange-looking human feet and tiny human toes.

Amy looked up as the Elite's eyes jerked to hers before he snapped back to the window. He scratched at his cheek as purple flooded his face and damn near completely engulfed his head. All of those little iridescent scales blanched against his skin "I do not believe you are well enough to…" he began in a cautious rumble.

"I'm good," Starr insisted, "I've got this," she said, needing to reassert herself into the world of consciousness as a grown woman, not helpless like a defenseless _child_. She needed to shake off all of that. But, even as a familiar sense of hardened conviction clamped down on her, Amy felt a tinge of uncertainty, as if her body wasn't convinced by her words because her mind was still shaking with vivid memories.

Her bare feet touched the floor and, as Torsch expected, the moment she tried to stand her knees went wobbly and her legs caved.

_Stubborn female._

Starr doubled over and stumbled with a sharp curse as her arms flailed and lines were jerked painfully from her wrist. The IV stand was sent toppling across the bed.

'Korid twisted and grabbed her before she could fall, easily swinging her up into his arms and still managing to snatch the stand up before it could fall to the floor. He stepped to put her back on the thin mattress as he moved the stand out of the way. Holding her carefully, he set her on the bed. As he laxed his grasp on her and she slid through his embrace, Torsch could feel the curves of her slim body beneath the thin garments which barely covered her and left her creamy legs completely exposed. She was warm and soft, and so close her scent filled his nostrils. She smelled of something medicinal and dirt and sweat and ash and _woman_.

A cold spike shot through his chest and Torsch felt the rate of his hearts increase in absolute panic as a base desire grabbed hold of him. It was dizzying. 'Korid did _not _feel such things, ever. Desire. No. Absolutely _not_. He was a man in rigid control of himself. He was _not _susceptible to physically weak and inferior minded ridiculousness no matter how tired he was after the last ten days, no matter how seeing her fluctuate from reality to unconsciousness and everything in-between had cut at him, no matter how emotionally drained or spiritually crushed or physically wrung out or sexually frustrated he was.

For a moment, he was afraid to move.

_What in nine hells…oh, gods, was he trying to _justify_ this? _

Torsch was fairly certain he had just completely lost what was left of his mind.

When he moved to pull away, Amy held onto him an extra beat, just long enough for awkwardness to sneak in. She couldn't help it. Emotional exhaustion played across a memory fogged with past emptiness and pain. He was still leaned over her and her cheek was pressed into the soft, warm skin of his bare neck. She could feel his arm secured along her shoulder and down her back as he slowly relaxed. She became aware of the solid structure of his hips against the edge of the mattress between her knees. It didn't seem to matter that she was dressed in little more than singed underclothes or that he was a big, alien ass-hat. In that moment, a need for comfort Starr had deliberately neglected for most of her life suddenly lashed out and demanded attention. A large, strong hand dropped down the swell of her shoulder, followed the curve of her waist, and Amy felt the palm of 'Koridee's hand softly stroke the length of her bare thigh from her hip to her knee.

It felt like all of the air was sucked out of her lungs as Amy looked up into his face and saw the same confused intensity she felt rolling around inside as it was reflected in those beautiful eyes. He didn't try to pull away and each moment she was reminded of how good it could feel to let a man be that close to her, to let a man _touch _her.

_Wait…where did __**that **__come from?_

Caught off guard by the unexpected pain of a deep, personal insecurity, Starr leaned back and braced a hand against the plate on his massive chest. 'Koridee dutifully stepped away, never breaking eye contact, looking back at her with both apology and…something that kind of looked like longing.

_What?!_

He was a world-class dick-head; and an _alien _for Christ's sake!

Unable to deny there was an odd electricity now charging the air, or that she could still feel the after effects of his touch prickling against her skin, Amy tried to come up with something snarky to say to reassert some distance and put things back in proper perspective but…but…

_Oh, God._

The warmth of a blush washed across her cheeks and Amy rubbed her hands across her face in irritation.

"How, um," she stumbled over the words, mumbling through her hands, "How long have I been out?"

'Koridee was looking at his fingers, picking at his dull, claw-like nails; mandibles on one side of his face twitching nervously for a few beats before he folded his arms and turned back to the window, "Ten days," he sighed softly.

She stared at him, not daring to acknowledge the weariness she heard in his voice. No, she couldn't do that; she needed to find some distance. She couldn't let herself think he was capable of being concerned. Distance was _safe_. "Ten _days_," she managed to squeak, "Where…how…" she stuttered, words and emotions clogging in her head and throat as she tried to piece together what she had missed. She was half-naked and in a strange place and her brain wasn't working right. Tears sprang to her eyes in frustration and in embarrassment Amy dug the heels of her hands into her face to try to make it stop.

"I should leave," Torsch said, turning toward the door, feeling very uncomfortable with this emotional display.

"Wait," Amy called back reflexively, her mind reeling with a surge of fear at the idea of being left alone.

He paused, tipping his face in question, uncertain if she meant it and deciding if he would relent. She was looking back at him, tucking her legs beneath the thin sheet.

"I will go get Penny," he rumbled in quiet reassurance.

"Where are we?" she continued, still not willing to let him go, not sure why, and getting irritated with herself for it.

He turned back to her hesitantly, "On your military installation..." he said, his words trailing off as his throat went dry.

She had found the bandage on her side and sat lifting her shirt giving an exhibitive view of her naked abdomen as she inspected it. Torsch felt his guts flop. Her face lifted to his and his eyes jolted to meet hers.

The bandage was dark gray-ish and Amy thought it was weird looking. It felt leathery and tough, but was squishy and yielded to her touch like a gel covering. Not anything she was aware of the UNSC using.

"What is this?"

"It is there to eliminate infection," the Elite said through gritted teeth, the tendons in his neck flexing, "to keep the injury clean and manage the pain; to aid your body in regenerating its own covering."

"_You_ did this?" she asked in a hoarse whisper.

He was not sure what was in her voice, if she was setting him up for some kind of attack or trying to convey surprise, or both, but every abiding instinct told him this was an accusation and he was in danger. He gave a single nod.

"Why would you do that, 'Koridee?"

"'_Korid_," he barked, more defensively than he had intended, "I have no remaining allegiance to the Covenant," he snarled, "And it was done because you were not in a state to see to the injury, _so I did_."

It was not his intention to let his spiritual hurt carry over into his explanation, but it did and he had no way of taking it back. He felt lost and angry. She had inadvertently reminded him that the Prophets had called for the extermination of his people. He had wanted to go on believing the Jiralhanae were simply traitors. But, there had been too many parallel accounts from loyalist Unggoy and Kig-Yar; and he had heard the order himself from a recording saved in the helm of a dead Jiralhanae. He had believed it was the brutes who had staged an uprising, but it was the Covenant who had betrayed the Sangheili. The very idea made his blood boil. Everything he had believed his whole life was a lie. His gods were dead if they ever existed in the first place.

A tiny smile curled one side of her mouth. She had heard the venom in his voice. Good, because anger gave her something to latch onto, something to use. Anger was _safe. _

_So why didn't she just let him leave?_

"Still no first name, _'Korid_?" she said caustically against self-disgust at the reminder of personal neediness.

His mandibles twitched. Torsch could hear in her voice she was arming herself for a verbal fight. "No," he managed in a low hiss, taking a step back. Even having been with her kind for this length of time he would not, could not, let himself get comfortable with the idea. There were bounds of basic regard humans seemed to have no appreciation for and he was not going to allow himself to be degraded as he felt many of his fellows had. Not when he had already lost so much of his own identity. She was managing quite well enough with his clan name alone and the margins were skewed as it was and…

The expression on her face widened as he stood there thinking and it occurred to him that this was about to go off in a highly inappropriate direction.

"You know," Amy mused, "if you wanted to see me in my underwear, you could have just asked. You didn't have to wait until I was unconscious."

The color drained from his face and the little freckles stood out like darkened silvery dots, "I-I would not," he stammered before blurting in a rush, "I would not dishonor you that way, woman!"

She raised a brow, forcing herself to be satisfied with his reaction though a part of her felt all wrong, "Uh-huh," she grunted, "I thought you said you wouldn't touch me because it would dishonor _you_, _'Korid_?"

He swallowed hard and took another step away, completely unsettled at having been drawn so easily into this provocative quarrel, "I-you…" He wanted to be anywhere but there at that moment because he really wanted to reach out and throttle her. Torsch knew he deserved at least some of her ire. _More _than some of it, judging from her incoherent ramblings. But, he was tired and now she was just being an ill-natured female at him for _no appropriate reason _and his mind was untrustworthy, and he was becoming inanely distracted with…with…something he did not wish to dignify with a label.

She was deliberately trying to provoke him and he knew that was the point of this female sport, but he did not know how to play this disgusting game, and he was not in the mood for a tutorial from a _human_. It was revolting, a lewd sparring match with the specific intention of riling a man enough so that his dignity would eventually snap. The end was to get a noble so angry he would take her quickly and just _get it over with_. Torsch had never been particularly versed in the finer points of courtship, and he was _not _a Swordsman, nor a sadist, and there was no way she could really want to...and...and…

His temper flared, "It is not something I would expect _you _to understand, _human_."

She narrowed her eyes._ Good, be angry, because anger creates distance and distance is _safe, "Is that because I'm dumber than a dog or because I'm a woman?"

_Oh, hells, _'Korid thought as he snarled and took a threatening step toward her.

Just one step: that was all he dared.

The only reason this was causing him _any_ discomfort was for the same reason his sense of common decency was out of balance. His existence had been upended and he had clearly mistaken the past ten days as an indication she was capable of actual _feelings. _Somehow he had been lulled by her pain and let his guard down.

"Stop this female lasciviousness," he growled defensively, embarrassed and ashamed.

Amy glared at him, "Female…_what?_" she seethed, "Oh, you'd really like that, wouldn't you?"

Torsch snorted, "You are repugnant."

"And, you're a jack-ass!"

"Well," Penny's voice intruded into the argument with a chirp as she waddled into the room to plant herself between them, hands on her hips, "I see you two have picked up right about where you left off."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

**Fort Champlain **

Refugees came in from all over the surrounding city and county regions. Some came in from neighboring North Etienne and Cean to establish direct communication with surviving groups. A system of trade emerged in usable scavenged goods and food, and those with useful skills set to work trying to make some sense from the madness. Fairfield Army Hospital, or what was left of it, and the surrounding grounds had become a central location for survivors. Just to the east of the main building a line of several hundred billets had been revitalized as livable quarters. The buildings were left-over from when the installation had been under construction and later relegated to storage. They were once again serving their original purpose to capacity while patches of ground in the outlying training and parade fields looked like campsites gone awry. The outdoors department of the exchange had been raided, along with supply facilities. Even connexes were being used as shelter. Anything that could be inhabited now was as the need arose.

The amount of wounded was less than Amy had expected and the hospital was less medical facility and more temporary housing and screening camp for incoming groups. Then again, with medicine having been knocked back a few hundred centuries with the loss of power, data, and equipment, those grievously injured succumbed to their injuries quickly and in numbers. This was also complicated by the issue of locating enough clean water. Reports from incoming groups indicated the Alsace Dam had been compromised and a quarter of North and New Saint Etienne were flooded.

There were the issues of non-functioning or contaminated water systems and overloaded and flooded sewage systems. Outbreaks of general illness associated with unsanitary conditions went from historical theory to reality while the surviving populous faced dealing with mass casualties, scavenging animals and insects doing their part to spread misery and sickness, locating sufficient food and necessities, and standard end-of-the-world mayhem.

The Sangheili turned out to be pretty damn good at being an organized police and security force and seemed happy to have a job which involved the distinct opportunity to kill again. Brutes left in the area were put down and roving bands of the human criminal element who took the state of governmental collapse as a reason to commit atrocities really had no chance. The Elites were disturbingly good hunters and genuinely enjoyed what they did. They managed to keep the riff-raff in check. There wasn't a surviving thug or gang with delusions of being bad-ass enough to take on pissed off Sangheili with sanction from the emerging, make-shift civilization to do as they saw fit with enterprising or opportunistic delinquents and hooligans.

Everyone who wanted to stay or come on the installation had a part to do. There were people helping shuffle supplies around, areas designated for cooking and cleaning, the smell of various soups and rations, lines of laundry flapping in the breeze, and humans and Elites in clusters working on weapons. There were also groups of kids kicking a soccer ball around or playing made up games in the tree lines. Their intermittent laughter was a sound which had never seemed more sacred.

It took Amy the better part of two days to get back on her feet. Even with a fresh uniform rounded up from who-knew-where and after managing to keep down a few portions of soup, courtesy of Grand-mama Larouche, she was unsteady on her feet and succumbed to bouts of complete exhaustion. Penny scuttled about doing minor things to help the sparse nursing staff, but mostly she was relegated to the equivalent of bed-rest at Doctor Guthrie's perpetual insistence. She had mostly kept Amy company in her waking hours and had done her best to fill in the ten day gap in the other woman's memory.

That had been a giant kick in the teeth. It turned out, the reason they were there and not still holed up in a row house in hell was because Stealth Major 'Korid had sent a couple of his men out with Cory Trice with the specific instructions to find humans who could help her and to make sure it was safe. Then, he had carried her here and questioned everything they did to help her and took turns with Penny, Kote and Grand-mama Larouche watching over her. And, that pile of blankets on the floor next to her bed was where he had slept, when he had slept, you know, in between kicking ass and doing his part to make sure this place stayed safe and watching her sleep. But, after she had come-to and Penny had gotten in between them and shooed him off, 'Korid had never come back.

Penny preferred one of the small fold-out couches and Grand-mama Larouche slept in the room's other bed. Kote 'Hakkamr would come in for a few hours during the day to snore his Elite ass off on the floor before leaving again. When she laid down, Amy found herself playing what she knew and remembered over and over in her head. For some reason, she kept analyzing the final exchange between herself and 'Korid and questioning her reactions and his.

There was the fact he had seemed disgusted, or even _embarrassed_, that she was a woman. As soon as she had found out she could make him squirm it had seemed like an appropriate form of revenge for his unpleasant disposition. It was fun to watch him get flustered. It had seemed like a good way to amuse herself in this hell-hole. After all, he _was_ a jack-ass: a condescending, grumpy, overly-male man. But, even if he really _believed _the ugly things he had said, his actions afterward said there was more going on in his head than pure hatred. Amy found herself alternating from feeling somehow vindicated, to angry, to overwhelmingly sad, to feeling like a dick…and looking at the neatly folded pallet on the floor next to her bed and, against her best efforts, wondering where he was.

The third morning, Starr decided she felt well enough to risk going out and finding the ranking UNSC Army survivor, which turned out to be a Lieutenant Colonel Dover. They discussed the water system and Amy went over the locations of the installation's six man-made, underground, sealed back-up reservoirs. Even if only one of them had been spared, that would give them enough clean water to make a go at locating and unlocking any uncompromised pipelines running up-river from the contaminated region and setting them up to feed and refill the back-up reservoirs. Dover had insisted Amy get with the other remaining engineers but sit out any missions. He favored keeping a brain with usable knowledge on such things safely inside the installation. The pipeline locks were based on basic mechanics, no electronics, and her presence would not be required to turn a wrench. Starr found herself glad the whole system had not been updated on the UEG's timetable after all.

The rest of the day had been spent with the remaining Corps of Engineers soldiers discussing the general state of things. Fort Champlain was mostly UNSC and Elites with a heavy scattering of civilians. Few of those civilians openly admitted having been rebels but Amy knew that only meant there were a good number of people who were simply smart enough to keep their mouths shut. There were rumors a few in-coming groups had reported seeing Brutes in what was once New Saint Etienne's upper-crust district. They were sketchy on details, probably not wanting to out themselves as thieves. It was amazing what people would steal when law failed, and no one really wanted to admit being untrustworthy in a community which had no problem with executing people who were self-motivated to hurt and maybe even kill others for meaningless crap.

The building which once housed Amy's office with the Water Purification, Treatment, and Resource Management Division no longer existed. It was apparently now a crater and gone with it were all of the supplies which would have made her new-found position much easier. The distinction between potable and non-potable resources was really down to nothing more than hopes and prayers and buckets on roofs and rain dances.

Day dropped off to late afternoon and Amy made her way back to the hospital feeling like she had run a marathon. When she climbed the stairs and stepped to the door of the shared room, Penny was sitting on the edge of Grand-mama's bed with her legs dangling off the side and her hands propped behind her. The pregnant woman was making faces and muttering as Stealth Major Kote 'Hakkamr stood with a large, dark hand across the apex of her stomach, a big, goofy grin on his face.

"I swear, they started moving and now I think they've decided to have a boxing match in there," Penny said, reaching to press a hand to her gut.

Kote let his hand travel across her abdomen then said softly, "In my culture, it is a good omen for a woman to feel her children move. It is an indication they will be exceptionally strong."

"Well, that's good," Penny said with amused sarcasm, "but can they give my kidneys a break in the mean time?"

Amy leaned against the door casing and smiled at the sight. Most of 'Hakkamr's armor was still in a neat stack on the floor. He stood with one arm out of his bodysuit as if he had been interrupted in dressing. Easily pushing eight and half feet tall, Kote was big. He was dark like oiled mahogany with scars crisscrossing exposed skin stretched over thick muscle. His muddy green, reptilian eyes caught light when his face was in the shadows of the drawing evening like a predator. He was just a terrifying example of an Elite in general; with the exception of the look on his face at that moment.

Kote leaned down and brushed his mandibles along Larouche's cheek, whispering something inaudible but clearly dark and suggestive, which made Penny giggle like a girl.

_Well,_ Starr thought,_ alright then. _

Penny narrowed her eyes and scrunched up her face playfully but looked up as Amy walked into the room clearing her throat loudly. Kote visibly startled and dipped his face to Amy as she passed, "Apologies," he rumbled, quickly slipping his arm into his bodysuit as if he thought she would somehow be offended by the sight of his naked _arm_, "I was not aware…"

"It's okay," Amy laughed dismissively as she crawled across her bed, boots and all, and sighed wearily.

Kote watched her amused smile for a moment. His pupils constricted and his lips crinkled across his upper mandibles ever so slightly. It was surprising how expressive their faces could be and at that moment, his expression seemed to say he had taken affront to something. Without comment, 'Hakkamr turned to Penny and they shared a quiet exchange in French before he finished donning his armor and left.

* * *

_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

Outside the forward viewscreen the suns were setting. Their combined orbs of orange and red seemed to set the ground afire with yellows and pinks. Distinct lines of atmospheric elevation caught the light in a rainbow of blues and purples and grays. A few clouds dotted the far horizon in shades of yellow and gold. Slivers of copper gave away trails of rivers caught in the brilliance as the terminal line of darkness draped across the planet. Streams of smoke trailed up and drifted in smudges that caught sunlight in sparks of silver. Though certainly a greater panorama, and only a metaphoric burning, Sicera wondered if this was close to what his ancient predecessor had seen before submitting himself to the death he likewise deserved.

The Legion Master grunted and nodded to himself; _Yes__, it assuredly was, _though, Sicera would not die at the hands of a beautiful woman, or even those of one he had in blind egoism thoroughly wronged. There were was a certain degree of sorrow in that, and not only for the shame it caused. 'Berovai was left to acknowledge there was no one he could honestly have claimed he cared enough for to allow it, or even have made it a possibility.

He had been just one of many sons born to his mother, and the man he suspected as his father had sired hundreds. Guilty of the same, Sicera had more children than he could possibly know even if it were legally permitted. He had a harem full of women and a Mistress who was perpetually pregnant with the child of one visiting noble or another. It had been a life of empire rebuilding, when service permitted.

A lineage did not rise from disgrace by any other means than sheer force of will and it was expected each succeeding Kaidon of Berov would, quite literally, breed his own army. Having been selected and confirmed representative of his bloodline, Sicera had taken every measure to ensure the lineage increased and did so with distance from ancestral discredit. Affection was imprudent and not a notion known to him.

There was a deep stain on the clan; history which survived if for no other reasons than to insure the sons of Berov took no action based on emotion. His ancestors, Odura and Herra 'Berovai, were known for the greatest of prominence and the lowest of falls. Their infamy had survived the ages and spread across the planet and colonies as exemplifying the worst Sangheili were capable of.

A man charged with overseeing the largest territory under single rule Sanghelios had ever seen was brought down by a _woman_. The Kaidon Odura 'Berovai had allowed his love for a murderess to cloud his judgment. Mercy shown toward a common whore had undone countless generations of eminence, and insured that no such idea would ever again be considered honorable in Berov.

The Mistress Herra used her beauty to manipulate a man into bestowing on her the highest honor awarded to her gender in recorded history. She stood as the only female ever officially recognized by a council as a Swordsman. Lovely beyond measure and deadly beyond calculation, Herra was said to have brought rival empires to their knees in more than one way.

Sicera sighed heavily and reached to scratch his chin, _Thus are the things left to live beyond the grave. _

A regular thumping and shuffling brought him back to the present situation, giving away efforts from without to breach the command center door locks.

Poor Izakkus. What must he have done after he and his men fought tooth and nail for days only to find the doors sealed and the Huragok all dead and unable to serve him?

Sicera clicked his mandibles and turned from the viewscreen as sparks began sputtering through the tight seam of the main portal. Alone, having given those who assisted in taking the command center the opportunity to go and die with honor, the Legion Master reached and unclasped the fasteners which held his cloak in place. He slid the heavy, emerald fur from his shoulders, neatly draping it across a console. At the door, the stream of sparks widened and a cascade erupted in glittering shades of orange and pink which bounced along the threshold before burning out.

With deliberate movements, 'Berovai drew his sword hilts and set them aside before deactivating and unhooking armor plates, letting them fall loudly to the deck. Stepping from his boots, Sicera pulled the zip across his chest and peeled off his bodysuit like a serpent shedding its skin.

It would be a lovely evening to die, and like Odura, Sicera would do so with only that which he could claim as his own, though, less physically sated.

He had come into this universe without a name, without clothes, and without armament. Few men had the luxury of going out in blissful, bare obscurity, and 'Berovai intended to make the most of it. History would not look back and remember him, for greatness or for fault. The void of the former was well worth the elimination of the latter.

The betrayal set in motion by the Prophets was painstaking, and if the Sangheili survived as a species Berov would continue without record of the manner in which, or the reason this one Kaidon had died. He would die in the darkness of the last place he held as his own. With nothing. No lovely young concubine to satisfy him before running her blades through his chest, no empire burning around him, no eunuch slave to record for all eternity the last bloody moments of his life and the details of how it had ended up as such. No story of personal fault to live for all eternity.

Nothing.

History would be silent on the matter of his death and that was more than he had a right to hope for after what he had done.

The breadth of his foolishness had cost many lives and he deserved no better than Odura for his sin. Sicera had been blinded by his own cause and had set his men up for slaughter just as surely as that damnable leader had done before him in the annals of antiquity. It was not love or mercy, or even the expansion of his empire, which had brought the Legion Master to the moment of his death, but personal corruption. He was to have been promoted to Imperial General at the successful conclusion of this mission; at least, that was the lure used to hinder his better judgment and convinced him not to listen to his most trusted and loyal friend.

Was it any more noble than the worst of his lineage?

Was it better to be fooled by one set of desires over others?

No, in the end, power had been presented as honor and the very blood in his veins had betrayed him.

Sicera snorted a laugh, _Even __Odura had stooped so low as to give a slave his name back…_

Slowly, a toothy smile crept across his face and 'Berovai bellowed a deep, mirthful laugh at the thought.

A muffled shout interrupted his moment of understanding and the command center doors cracked, the seam jolting apart at an angle. A flood of sounds filtered in as the Legion Master stepped naked to stand in the center of the room. The wedged tips of a hull splitter were jammed into the awkward, uncooperative opening and the device was cranked hard from the other side. Metal creaked and the doors dimpled at the edges against pressure. Sicera could see flashes of various creatures beyond and hear their excited chatter.

The opening yielded in fits, metal buckling as it tried to hold against retaining locks until structural integrity reached its limit against the breaching device. The doors complained a final time before bucking partially back into their respective casings.

Furry, unkempt hands and taloned Kig-Yar fingers grabbed at the door edges and shoved them aside allowing a handful of heavily armed traitors to spill into the room. Five beasts in stolen Sangheili armor and a slew of Sicera's former Special Operations Unggoy and Kig-Yar barged in, eyes scanning, weapons at the ready…

All paused for a decidedly uncomfortable second and eyes shifted to avoid the sight of an utterly shameless, completely nude Sangheili standing casually and unarmed before them. Kig-Yar squawked in disgust and the Unggoy all backed away as a group. One of the brutes called over his shaggy shoulder for the pack leader.

Izakkus shoved his way through, stepping forward, plasma rifle trained on the cause of his prolonged aggravation and his hatred for the man rose to a new level. 'Berovai had the nerve to greet an advancing force completely helpless, with not so much as a stitch to cover himself or a blade with which to make a defense. Completely without fear.

It was the highest of Sangheili insults.

Izakkus seethed as a knowing smile slowly spread across the Legion Master's multi-jawed face. With a snarl of rage, the Jiralhanae took a threatening step forward, closing a finger over the trigger of his weapon as Sicera 'Berovai closed his eyes and uttered a guttural, triumphant laugh.

* * *

**Caddo Parish/Governor's Mansion**

The cool of the evening was washing into the room on a salt breeze. Waves could be heard crashing from the open gallery doors as the long shadows of evening stretched to envelop the room. Azrael Ashmund sat in a King George style chair with a tumbler of brandy in one hand and a UNSC Army issue M6G Magnum dangling from the other, looking on as Joseph Edwards stood shivering just outside the French doors on the wide porch. The ocean glistened from a distance behind him.

The man was filthy, even by the day's standard. His hair was greasy, flecked with dirt, and mussed. Ugly bruising marred one side of his head and a tear rent the clothing across his chest as lines of congealing blood slid from his torso to drain down his pants and puddle around his boots. It was far too long into the summer for him to have a chill, but massive blood loss did tend to do that to a person.

"You're _late,_"Ashmund said, raising the glass to his lips.

Joseph fidgeted.

"How many?" Azrael asked after he had taken the required moments to savor a good drink.

"Nine," Edwards confessed, his wide eyes downcast and bloody snot dripping in a glob from his mouth.

Ashmund snorted in disgust, "I sent you out with _nine_," he said through gritted teeth, "Are you telling me you have come back _alone_; with _nothing_?"

Joseph winced as he shifted, clearing his throat but winding up harking a blob of thick mucus instead. He swallowed it out of pure fear, "No, sir," he answered as convincingly as he could, "We made contact with our plants, they gave us the location of some reservoirs hidden on the installation and confirmed where the Elites and UNSC are mostly camped out. They had drew us a map," Edwards made to dig in a pocket but Ashmund raised a hand, "_Drawn_." He interrupted.

The other man had the sense to look chastened for his poor grammar, "and…and they showed us where there are gaps in the patrols," he continued, "and now we've got an idea of how armed they are and where they stage their weapons and…"

Azrael set aside his glass, the container clapping loudly against the marble top of a side table. Joseph went quiet as Ashmund rose slowly and neatened his faded shirt and trousers, "And what of my runners? The rest of my plasma weapons? The Ghosts? The Banshees?" he asked darkly, casually strolling forward and leaning a shoulder against the door frame.

Edwards ran a shaky had through his hair, "The Brutes…something…something's changed," he said, "We went to the meeting point," he said earnestly, his eyes full of residual fear and pleading, "and we had them captives to exchange like always…"

His words trailed off as he seemed to stumble over his own lips. Ashmund imperceptibly gritted his teeth and ignored the swine's butchering of the English language. He and a minimal part of his crew had taken up in the Governor's Mansion after the tables turned on the Brutes. Seizing an opportunity, Azrael had made the proverbial deal with the devil and secured a more remote location to prepare. The Brutes loved the taste of human flesh, and it was far easier for the less motivated of their kind to trade Covenant weapons and vehicles for an easy meal than to risk being caught by Sangheili patrols within the city. It was a _valuable _deal.

"That big one, he…he said they don't need our deal anymore. And they just…just…just started killing everyone. The captives, the runners, everybody…I only got away because…"

Joseph startled when Ashmund reached out a big hand and patted his shoulder sympathetically. Azrael steered the other man around and the two of them crossed the portico and descended the steps, walking out across the overgrown lawn toward the retaining wall and a set of stone stairs which led down to the beachfront. Edwards hobbled along and shook, nodding to himself as if in reassurance that his account was sufficient.

The men stepped down the walk and Joseph fought for his footing as his boots sank into the sand, "You have been my most valuable resource," Ashmund mused, pausing and turning to face the other man.

Edwards just nodded, a bit confused.

Azrael clicked his tongue against the inside of his teeth making a tisking sound, "Until now," he snapped, bringing the pistol up and firing into Edward's head before the man had a chance to register what was about to happen.

A spray of blood ejected from the back of Joseph's head and his body gave a twitching shutter as it keeled backwards into a heap on the beachside. Ashmund closed his eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling as if in meditation before turning and strolling back to the house.

* * *

**Fort Champlain **

Darkness was creeping in across the remains of the installation. Everything was bathed in the gray shadows of coming dusk. A breeze kept the stench of rot to a minimum, but every now and again the scent of death would assault the nose or the wind would shift and the smell of cremation pits would mingle with the lingering smell of human cooking.

This was the only time Stealth Major 'Korid took to himself. With the suns sinking at his back and the storms having long exhausted their rain and moved on, the stars would begin dotting the night's sky and he could just be alone and at peace. It was the hour when humans would be putting their young to bed and surviving refugees not assigned to some night time duty would be preparing to take their rest. He had once spent this time watching over and helping care for Amy, but she had made it abundantly clear he had exhausted his usefulness to her. So, in the hours when his daily work was done for an extended period exceeding his need for sleep, he sat and…thought. Or did not think. Whichever.

For the most part it was peaceful.

Quiet.

Familiar. Even if painfully so.

He had done this as a child. Though, it was onto the roof of the house his mother had moved them into to which he had climbed and looked up at a night's sky just a foreign.

The decision Mother made to leave her ancestral homeland altered his life. Had she stayed, the best he could have hoped to become was a _farmer. _At worst he would have ended up a farm _slave, _but most likely he would have been a farm servant like his mother had been. At any rate he would have been poor, just like the rest of Mother's clan. He never would have gone to War College and would have had few options or avenues to increase social standing. Torsch understood what she had done for him. He_ had_ understood it even then, but that never made being uprooted and taken from a simple colony he knew to the homeworld easy.

On Sanghelios, in Berov, he had been an outsider in every possible way.

At eight years old, Torsch had looked up into the darkness that first night in a new land and felt the foundation of his world shatter when he could not find the constellations. He had _known_ it would look different, but seeing it had been….

Things he had learned were nigh to eternal were suddenly not the same. In the more than sixty years as a citizen of Berov which followed, the sky had become more familiar, but it was not…home.

And, now, he would likely never see either sky again. Every day, the chances of returning to the legion were less. Whatever the Jiralhanae were doing was obviously not going according to their plan, but there was still the chance the brutes would take the flagship and glass the planet.

With a sigh, 'Korid kicked his legs, thumping his bare heels against the façade of the hospital building, and shoveled another mouthful of rations into his face. He was sitting along the raised edge of the rooftop, legs dangling from the side, scooping the last of his meal into his mandibles, looking up at the sky and feeling completely adrift.

Granted, humans were far more strange than the people of Berov had ever been at first. Unlike Sangheili of all races he had known, these creatures were fundamentally bizarre. They had an aversion to consuming raw meat and seemed horrified at the prospect of cannibalism. Their young were wild and unruly and _loud_ and apparently corporal punishment was frowned upon, or at least any meaningful use thereof. Human males were disturbingly open with their displays of affection for their children and their females. It was quite unsettling.

Humans also found it necessary to bring mechanized weapons to all forms of hunts, and they slept and ate an inordinate amount for their size. They had odd ways of preparing their food and preferred to season and cook their meats beyond recognition. Though the humans were hospitable enough to offer to share their sustenance, the Sangheili generally stuck to their own dwindling field rations and small vertebrate rodents and other furry mammals which were plentiful in the city areas.

Torsch poked at the last of his meal. Being largely carnivores by nature, the Sangheili's rations were compact wafers composed of meat proteins and, unlike what he had observed the humans preparing as stored foods, made no pretenses about what it was. The crackers could be soaked and consumed as a gruel or gnawed upon as they were. Though certainly intrigued by the differences in food preservation and preparation, and curious as to the various smells put off by human cuisine, few of the Sangheili had dared more than a perfunctory tasting for fear of any embarrassing gastrointestinal ramifications. Torsch shied away altogether because he could feel his insides turn just at the smell.

He shook his head and grunted against the thought, setting aside the empty field ration container near his boots and helmet. Stretching himself out on the ledge, 'Korid laced his fingers behind his head and looked up at the sky. The last rays of the suns had finally been snuffed out beyond the western horizon and stars winked back from the sky by the millions. A hazy streak of the galaxy slashed across in a silvery arc and by now two bluish moons would be peeping from behind the remains of tall buildings in the distance somewhere.

"'Korid?"

The utterance was quiet by human standards, but for a Sangheili's ears it was quite audible, and to Torsch's ears, it was distinctly _Amy. _

'Korid could feel a mandible involuntarily twitch and he scowled up at the sky. She was the last _thing _he wanted to find him here. Avoidance tactics which had proven effective for the last few days were apparently insufficient. He had managed not to see her or come across her, or interact with her in any way. He had no wish to hear her continued contentions that he was a reprobate or be demeaned by a human woman playing a hateful game with him.

Amy paused, she hadn't expected to find him there, or see him ever again for that matter. She had woken and couldn't sleep and decided to just wander around. It hadn't been a conscious plan to climb the stairs to the roof, but she had and now…this was awkward.

Torsch swung his legs over the ledge and sat up with a low growl. He came up here to get away from humans. It was, or at least _had been, _peaceful. That was all likely to change now that _she _had shown up and her mouth had clearly not stopped functioning. He gritted his teeth in frustration. He did not have it in him to do this. Not now.

Amy approached slowly though everything inside was screaming danger. As she drew near and braced her hands against the raised brick crowning the building, he seemed to drop his head, shoulders slumping, "I do not wish," he grumbled and heaved a sigh, "to quarrel with you, woman."

The pain and weariness in his voice made her flinch. Starr couldn't help but feel genuine empathy for whatever hell he was in. Everything that had happened couldn't be easy for him either. She drew a slow breath, pausing to calm the weird feeling twisting her guts before she spoke quietly, "I didn't come here to fight with you."

He blinked, then gradually turned to look at her. That was the reaction he had hoped for but not the one he had expected.

_Then, why did he feel somehow…disappointed? _

_And, what game could she up to now? _

He sat there in silence as Amy climbed onto the crowning a distance away from him. Crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap, she craned her neck and, for the first time in years, looked at the stars. It was quiet for a long time and Amy could feel him squinting at her suspiciously.

She turned to see that indeed he was.

'Korid peered at her, and as his lids slowly opened further she could see the reflective discs of his eyes darting ever so slightly as if studying.

Amy felt her heart do a little jump that made her look immediately away, "When I was little I use to think," she began, pausing with a gentle, nervous laugh, "that all those stars were angels God had put up there to watch over us and keep us safe."

Torsch turned and followed her gaze. That made no sense to him whatsoever. Add _weird stories passed along to their children _to the list human oddities.

"Then one day, I realized my angels must have gotten lost, or maybe God stopped giving a shit," she shrugged, "My grandmother tried to fix all of that but…then you guys showed up and started exterminating entire planets and…I don't know what to believe anymore."

He looked down at her, not wanting to hear the hurt in her voice. He felt caught between trying to figure out if this was a trick or if he should say something. Ultimately, Torsch decided to err on the side of saying nothing and just sat there with her in the silence which followed.

"My dad died when I was nine," she said without prompt, unfolding her legs and dangling them from the ledge, "My mom and step-dad were sent to prison…" there was a pause as she picked at her nails and kicked her feet, "I was thirteen when I went to live with my grandparents on Earth and," she laughed softly to herself, "after all the things that had happened to me the one that made the dam break was the first time I went outside at night and it was like the whole universe looked so…" she pursed her lips, furrowing her brows and crinkling up her nose in thought.

"Foreign," he rumbled quietly for her.

Amy nodded, swallowing hard at how insightful that really was, "Sometimes it still hits me that _that _was what made it all real, _that _was what my mind latched onto. Looking up and not seeing anything I could recognize and feeling like...like…" she shook her head and smiled a jaded smile, "a stupid kid I guess."

She sighed in frustration, "I'm sorry," she said, realizing she was beginning to ramble and he probably thought she was an idiot on top of being a bitch.

Hitching her legs back over the crown, Amy stood and brushed the seat of her pants, "I didn't mean to…" she began, thinking to make an apology for her previous outbursts. She faltered when he turned and looked at her because everything she could think of sounded, dumb.

"I don't think…" Amy tried, "I wasn't…"

_Yeah._

She combed her fingers through her hair absently and twiddled with a lock for a few moments, "I'm sorry, 'Korid," she said in a whisper, "for being…myself and for interrupting your," she looked up at the sky, "_this_."

He cocked his head to one side as she gave him an earnest look then turned to go. She had almost made it to the stairwell when she heard him call back to her, "You felt as if you were lost."

Amy turned and fought with herself over the smile that threatened to creep across her face.

She nodded then answered softly, "Yeah," before turning and disappearing down the stairs.

* * *

**Outside New Saint Etienne; In the Shadow of _Vengeant Shepherd_**

The last screams had stopped several hours before. Now all that remained was the sweet and tangy scent of roasting…_people_…that wafted in the summer air and drifted into her makeshift prison. Something had changed and Lucinda Deléon sat numb and empty and alone in her hell.

They had come for _everyone_ but her, leaving her to hear the cries and sobs and pleas that lingered until it was down only to the incessant _chop, chop, chop _as bodies were dismembered. For the first time since she had been captured, Lucinda was ready to die. She didn't want to be alone. She didn't want to think about what they would do with her now. She didn't want to be around when their celebration reached its crescendo.

It _was_ a celebration. The feeling in the air was unmistakable. Her captors had suddenly gone from seeming to wait in sullen calm to jubilance and hearty laughter as they made preparations for _something_. She could hear their voices blending into a dull roar as their numbers increased.

Lucinda lay on her side in the dirt, dressed in ill-fitting, dirty clothing which had once belonged to another prisoner. There was no relief from her pain in the coolness of the ground beneath her. The only thing which took her mind off of her physical suffering was the sound of laughter, the dancing of numerous fires as their flames were reflected on the far rim of her prison, and the incessant chatter of her captors as they moved about unseen. But, that was just replacing one torment with another.

They had set up a holding area by sealing off the mid-section of a rock formation with some kind of energy barrier. It was like a cave, only probably man made. Just a wide tunnel to nowhere. No matter what angle she found, Lucinda could only manage to hear her captors. She could never see them unless they came into the cavern. She took comfort in that they were too distracted now to bother with her…which was little solace since their amusement had left her barely able to crawl, let alone walk. She had found herself praying for a massive infection. Anything, _anything_ just to make it so there was an end in sight.

The various sounds of mirth rose in waves and Lucinda clamped her eye shut against the sounds coming from out there somewhere. God, she hated these monsters. She had learned early on to just accept what was happening, but as the sounds of torment rose to cheers and taunting she felt a consuming hopelessness.

_How long could they do this? When would it stop? _

She lay there and would have cried if there were tears left, until sounds drown one another, until she fell into the blackness of sleep, until the break of another day began casting pillars of light along the walls, until heavy footfalls and the approaching sound of laughter and foreign words began bouncing down in a nauseous chorus to her. A cold swell of determination waned to a weak sob of fear. She didn't even have the strength or stomach contents to get sick at the thought of all the things they might do to her. It was just acceptance, and the hope that this time she would die.

The energy barrier collapsed with a hiss but Lucinda was beyond the point of dreaming of having the strength to rush the opening. There was no fleeting remnant of the will to survive to pass before her better judgment took hold of her. She was hollow.

Then, a heavy _thud _sounded a few feet away and the energy barrier hissed back and the footfalls and chatter faded back down the cavern. As the din receded into the distance and the quite of her prison sank back in, a gurgling and painful noise slowly assaulted her ears. Lucinda pushed herself over and rolled onto her back, dropping her head to the side and daring to look.

In a bloody heap, the battered form of an Elite was left crumpled like an old tissue. He was naked, and stripes of flesh and muscle were torn from his body all over. Blisters and crusts of burned blood overlay deep gouges. Both of his hands looked crushed. One was a mass of swollen tissue weeping blood and fluids, and the other was twisted around in the wrong direction, the appendage degloved and skin missing halfway up his forearm. Flesh ringing his neck was ripped in lines that looped all the way around. A length of alien cord was wound through his mandibles then bound tightly around his snout. Angry, inflamed tissue ballooned at the binding's edges.

Lucinda rose, pushing herself up on wobbly arms to sit as best she could. The creature's nostrils flared and it drew a breath with a slurping sound and coughed against its gag. Then, swollen lids cracked and purple, bloody fluid spilled from the corner of his eyes and across the battered face. Dark black slits lolled mindlessly about against yellow irises stained with hemorrhage. Lucinda sat looking at him and, for the first time, saw someone she considered more unfortunate than herself to be kept alive.

The Elite let out a muffled groan and twitched and inched a damaged hand toward his face.

Lucinda reached toward him, "No," she said hoarsely, "Don't…"

She was thankful he didn't persist because she wasn't sure there was a place on him she could touch and not add to his misery.

He lay there wheezing and bleeding as she carefully unwound the cord from his mouth. His jaws felt like broken mush and when his mandibles drooped open Lucinda could see gaps of missing teeth and the shattered remnants of fangs. She tore at the hem of her shirt, ignoring the cracked and raw skin of her fingers. She patted at bleeding cuts on his face and found herself trembling as she continued to take in his injuries.

Then, a bloodied eye opened again and looked up at her.

Guilt assaulted her with renewed force. Guilt because she had felt a spark of relief at not being the object of their torment; guilt because she had no real way to ease his suffering; guilt because a part of her rejoiced at not being alone; guilt because she couldn't put an end to it for either of them.

He moaned and lay his head against the ground, his body wracked with labored breath. Lucinda scooted to retrieve the alien tin of water she had been alotted and wiped a tear as it slid down her cheek. She sat and awkwardly scooped water onto the Elite's mouth. He balked at first but eventually instinct overrode determination and a swollen tongue marred with open cuts worked to catch the fluid and funnel it through his mandibles. He drank until he couldn't keep the coordination up and Lucinda set the tin aside. Dropping her forehead to his puffy cheek, she lightly stroked the top of his head and whispered apologies as he rattled a weak, broken purr.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

**Outside New Saint Etienne**

It was hot. Not mildly uncomfortable, like what Unggoy were use to when not in their natural climate, which was most of the time for those in service to the Covenant or as slaves, but _hot_. Yipip missed the days when it was raining, at least then it had been tolerable. His methane reserves were still good but that was only because he had rerouted his systems to prolong the breathable supply. Nothing was left for keeping his undersuit cooled. The breeze that kicked up every now and then was only a minimal help. But, at least they had come upon food. A lot of food. Miles and miles: acres and acres of food.

Naaco was stuffing bunches of the sweet fruit they had found into his mandibles, stems and all, while Yipip meticulously peeled the skins from individual globes of green and purple and sucked the sticky insides through the port in the front of his mask. It was a bit bland in his opinion, but it was enough. At least he wasn't a Sangheili and didn't feel the need to go rooting through the dirt for more protein-rich foods. The idea of eating bugs and worms was just gross, but Naaco seemed happy to pick bugs from the vines and dig up the mulch all along the rows of hanging fruits with a stick and sniff out the small insects. He could find the wiggly-crawlies under rocks and leaves and seemed to know where to tear the bark from trees. It was impressive and a bit sad. Yipip wondered how much of that was instinct and how much of it had been learned out of necessity.

Being free was agreeable for his friend. Maybe it was being able to eat until his belly was distended; maybe it was sleeping the sleep of the free. Whatever it was, Naaco seemed happy. His bruises had faded away and he had no one to cower from or bow to. He was dirty and he smelled awful, but he was _happy_.

Yipip slurped another grape innard then wiped his hands on his tunic before retrieving the mapping device and giving it a click. They had gone west, to where the suns touched the ground at darkfall, just like they had been told, for _a lot _of darkfalls. Pillars of smoke rose in the distance in ever diminishing streams but didn't seem to get any closer for all of their walking. They had heard a few humans, Covenant vehicles, the chatter of Kig-Yar and Unggoy and the bellow of Jiralhanae and had hidden until the noise passed, but the only Sangheili they had seen had been dead.

He hadn't known how long it could take to find the Legion Master's men. Part of him had just supposed they would be crawling all over the place. But this planet was not very colonized to have so many humans living on it. The escape pod had put down way away from civilization and fighting and they had walked until they both had blisters on their feet. Open valleys had given way to forests with tall trees and prickly brush that eventually thinned to expanses of rolling farm land and endless rows of fruits and vines and untended herds of animals. They had crested yet another hill and found a stretch of half-finished, abandoned buildings nestled in the distance.

The mapping system projected a topographical display of the entire planet in a purple hologram that could be manipulated and zoomed in and out from any angle. Every now and then humans would show up as reddish dots and anything that was or use to be Covenant would show up as a green pinpoint. There were many green pinpoints inside the city still many miles away when Yipip zoomed out, and a couple of lines could be seen heading toward the shadow of _Vengeant Shepherd _and a cluster appeared to be already waiting near the ship. The Sangheili had given up their comms because of the integrated tracking systems early on, and the mapping device wouldn't pick up humans until they were close, so the Unggoy could be certain anything that once looked friendly was now not. At least they had a way of not accidentally bumping into the Jiralhanae.

Naaco was flaked out across a bed of peat under the intermittent shade of their food plants, looking up at the projection from underneath. He reached up and touched the hologram and it flickered and rotated at his touch, "What if they do not believe us?" he asked quietly.

Yipip looked down at his friend who was resting his head in the dirt, staring up into the topographical image. The Unggoy knew something of Sangheili social casts since the species were bound in so many ways, and he knew Naaco was right to be concerned. He was a slave without his master. If 'Berovai's men didn't believe their story, well, there was only one punishment for an escaped Sangheili slave: death.

"We have this," Yipip said in reassurance, lifting the map, "The device bears his seal, it was his."

"Maybe they will believe we _stole_ it."

"Maybe they won't."

Naaco folded his lower mandibles over his upper and closed his eyes. He did not know how to think like a free person, how to not think that he would be in trouble for this somehow. There were too many choices, too many different ways things could go: too much he could be blamed for. After a few moments, he rolled over onto his stomach, propped his elbows in the dirt and cupped his chin in his palms. His master's men were never mean to him, most of them acted as if he did not even exist, but that was before. Once they got the map to the soldiers…then what would happen to him? What would they want to know? What would they think had happened? Would they hurt him? Would they just take what they needed and throw them away?

Naaco paused and looked at the manacles secured around his wrist. The thick metallic bands were etched with Sicera 'Berovai's name, the Kaidon's crest, and the rune of a Legion Master. They had been on his arms for as long as he could remember along with the Mark of Disobedience that hashed up both forearms. He had no memory of what he had done so wrong; he knew it had to have been _something_ but his life had never been any different as far as he knew. He was nothing because of it; not really a person; not a female but not technically a male in any capacity either. He could barely _read_ and what little he could was only because of Yipip. He was just property to be bought or sold or killed or whatever suited his master. 'Berovai was mean, but he had limits. He had given him back his birth-name…that had to mean _something_, but Naaco could not figure out what.

He did not understand the world or lives or thinking of free men, and he had no desire to, but now he had no one to tell him what to do, no one to protect him…and that was terrifying.

"Maybe," the small Sangheili said, dropping his hands into the dirt and doodling with his claws as he looked toward a white-washed farmhouse in the distance, "Maybe we stay here for a little while?"

* * *

**Outside New Saint Etienne/In the shadow of **_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

They were determined to make his death take as long as possible. That much became apparent very quickly. Lucinda scooted to his side and looked over the Elite as he lay oozing in a puddle of his own blood and fluids. It ran down his blanched hide from new cuts and gashes and mingled with rivers of sweat pouring from his skin. From a slick of congealed blood and soured fluids smeared across the cavern floor, flies and gnats alighted and attempted to settle on him. The insects danced as he panted in rapid, shallow breaths and Deléon fluttered her hands about to chaise them away.

His face was once again bleeding and beaten to a pulp, mandibles twisted and fangs missing in gaps. Blood seeped from fresh spaces and stained the varying tips of teeth trying to grow in to replace those lost in the days before.

Or had it been weeks?

One hand was completely missing, a shard of bone was left protruding like a sharp pike from his right forearm. The fingers of his left hand looked as if someone had tried to pull his claws out, succeeding only in ripping off the tips of his forefingers, leaving his inner thumb clawless and completely rending his outer thumb off. Chunks of him were missing in gaping wounds which looked like torn bite marks. The hoved covering of the toes on his right foot had been ripped off and the soles of both feet were blistered with blood-filled burns.

Lucinda thought the whole of her own misery was small in comparison.

Her captors seemed to have no interest in her now that they had him to torture; and guilt weighed down heavily on her for that. Never once had she felt the desire to fling herself before these monsters in place of another because she valued her own life, but as she looked down at him and his fresh injuries, as he trembled in shock and cold from blood loss, Lucinda felt everything she had experienced and seen come crashing down on her and she just wanted to make it stop.

The ability of his species to heal was astounding in speed and efficiency, and Deléon came to the soul-crushing realization it could take weeks more for him to die. By the time she had woken next to him after he had first been brought in, the gaping wounds to his body had sealed over with a thin film of skin crusted in dried blood. Swelling had receded and blisters had abated to half-filled sacks of fluid. When he had opened his eyes, the yellow of his irises were stained in shades of brown and green as hemorrhage had begin subducting back into his body. His degloved hand had been drawn and the exposed muscle of his lower forearm had shriveled, the outlying skin constricting into a tight band at the line of the injury in preparation for his body to shed what it could not save. It was efficient in a brutally heart-wrenching way.

He had stirred only enough for her to help him drink, guilt assailing her for aiding in prolonging his misery; for doing the slightest to keep him alive; guilt for her selfishness in not wanting him to die.

And then, they had come back for him.

Over and over the cycle continued. He would be taken away and hours after his screams had stopped he would be pitched into the cell like so much garbage and allowed enough time to begin to heal. Just as he would start to emerge from unconsciousness, a day, maybe two, of his body struggling to right itself against massive trauma, he would be dragged back out again. The memory of his stained eyes looking back at her, speaking the void of his existence as he was physically towed away was haunting.

Each time he had been hauled back to her with more and more injuries, more and more of him damaged or missing.

Lucinda sniffed, tears burning as they escaped her eye and slid down her cheek. She pulled herself up to his side, using her feet to scoot the tin of water nearer. She had no clothing left with which to minister to his injuries. Completely nude and not caring, Lucinda had long been robbed of any sense of modesty. What was her nakedness when he was being so completely and repeatedly tortured?

Deléon collected up her hair, combing it over her shoulder with her fingers and dipping the ends in the water before using it to brush the crusty blood from his face. Blood and mucus bubbled from the torn slit of a nostril as he gurgled and a sob escaped her at the helplessness she felt. He was all she had in this place. She wanted him to die and escape this hell with the same ferocity she wanted him to keep living and stay with her. The dueling emotions tore her apart inside.

A thick, damp curl swept along the line of his upper jaw and an eye cracked, the slit of his pupil tracking lazily as it constricted and dilated in tremors, "It's…it's a-alright," Lucinda cried softly in hiccups, "I'm h-h-here."

He moaned in a deep bellow, sliding his left arm through the slick of fluids beneath him and reaching for her hand with his tattered fingers, his brain barely able to rationalize his existence...

…_She wept over him. This woman, whose people he had wronged, killed because of a doctrine he believed from the first to be false but followed for want for power; this young girl, assailed in her own private way, tried to ease his suffering; the girl to whom he had done nothing but bring monsters responsible for her torment; it was she who washed his face with her tears, tried to clean his injuries, helped to keep him warm, gave to him her water and rations from her own hands; who sang softly in her tiny human voice; and apologized repeatedly as if_ she_ had done something wrong…_

Lucinda reached for him, his body going lax as her trembling hand slid into his.

Drawing a ragged breath, Lucinda leaned and pressed her lips against his forehead, "I'm s-so sorry," she mumbled against his cool flesh with a whimper, "Please, God, m-make them s-stop doing this…"

…_The void of unconsciousness beckoned to take him away from the only genuine comforting he felt he had ever had in life, a comfort he did not deserve but which made him feel his sins were forgiven even in his present agony, comfort given as a tender kindness which made his punishment bearable if only for the fleeting moments when he knew she was near. In those precious seconds, he could hear her as she prayed. Prayed to her god, not for herself, but that whomever was listening would have _mercy..._on _him_… _

* * *

**Fort Champlain **

A semi-circle of Warthogs, civilian trucks, and a couple of dented Ghosts sat just outside the main hospital entrance. There had been a parade of excitement earlier in the afternoon when soldiers from 703rd Armor's motor pool had gotten a few vehicles back up and running. A literal parade, with soldiers hanging from the sides of seven vehicles as the convoy tottered down the streets of post, the soldiers hooting and whooping and punching the air in triumph until they came to a stop near Lieutenant Colonel Dover's command table on the trampled front lawn. The silver-haired officer had smiled for the first time in over a month.

Covenant EMP bombardment pre-ground attack was a bastard, but it turned out, not a complete devastation. Of course, no one usually lived long enough to figure that out. Dormant equipment not cycling or trickling electricity was relatively unscathed, not that there was much of _that_ in UNSC or UEG Land. That easily left ninety percent or more of the grid down, but reparable given enough time. The primary armory was still locked up tight and the operations grid for Nantes Arsenal was completely fried, so it was still down to scavenging weapons and collecting brass to reload ammunition.

But, they were mobile again. Somewhat. Transporting caches of goods would certainly be a bit easier.

Amy stood toweling her hair at the window, enjoying the evening breeze on her freshly scrubbed skin, feeling the cleanest she had in her life. She had taken a shower, an honest-to-God, with soap and shampoo and everything, shower_. _It had been in a field wash station tent, and hadn't involved a Jacuzzi, bubbles, or a bottle of vintage wine, but beggers couldn't be choosey. Still, it had boarded on being a religious experience.

The missions to locate reservoirs and the upriver pipelines had been successful. For the effort, Fort Champlain now had access to three tanks being filled form the River Alsace with water fit for consumption. There was now a row of water trailers equipped with wash stations and a field shower tent providing water through basic suction and gravitational flow. The whole arrangement was neatly flanked with hand-trenched drainage ditches. It was the most glorious thing Amy had seen in a long time.

There was a thump on the adjacent wall and a placard warning occupants they were under video surveillance at all times popped free of its clear plastic moorings and clattered across the floor. Starr rolled her eyes up to the ceiling and made an exasperated gesture, "Why?" she asked as a giggling eruption of half-hearted French protests came muffled from beyond the wall followed by a dark, silky retort.

Amy scowled and stepped over to the wall, giving the surface a few hearty bangs and snapped, "Hey!" _bang, bang, _"Knock it off," _bang, bang, bang. _

There was a half-beat of silence before Penny could be heard breaking out into hysterical laughter. Kote rumbled an amiable apology and Amy sighed, snatching the fallen placard and tossing it onto her bed.

_Thank God _that_ no longer applies, _Starr thought, contemplating the image of an eye affixed under the plastic plate's warning, _Otherwise some poor bastard on security duty would be getting a tutorial on interspecies, third trimester sex positions. _She made a face and bodily shivered with a gagging sound before moving to fix her hair up into a hasty bun and step into her boots.

She could have insisted on moving herself down to tent-city a week ago. No, she _had _insisted on moving down to tent-city a week ago, but Doctor Guthrie was determined to get her to stay.

He was a gentle, paunchy man with thick gray hair and a patchy beard to match and was endlessly intrigued by the Covenant bandage still affixed to her side. He wanted her close so he could monitor its progression. Honestly, it seemed as legitimate as any reason. The thing _was_ kind of neat. Porous but liquid resistant, like a thick layer of skin; the bandage would weep fluids and oppose water but felt somehow breathable. Guthrie had given it his critical eye and deemed it an amazing piece of medical technology: a regenerative and protective covering which eliminated the need for debridement, conventional tube drainage, skin grafting, antibiotics, or pain management. It was just as advanced as any other technology the Covenant possessed and was the only thing the Elites didn't consider a dishonor.

They didn't like 'doctors', which for them equated to 'surgeons'. The most they would allow someone to do was shove bones back in and snap them back in place and top the injury with a leathery bandage. That bad boy was slapped over any kind of wound: burn, gouge, gunshot, and if you lived, well, good for you.

Amy scratched at the bandage through her shirt.

It itched like crazy, but it had drawn out infection and kept her from feeling any discomfort, or outright _pain_, associated with second and third degree burns. It was now a half-shriveled, scab-like _thing _attached to her skin. But, it had been her ticket to her own room. Check that: her ticket to getting Penny and Kote _out _of the room she still shared with Grand-mama Larouche and 'Korid.

Penny was her friend, and Kote was…well, Kote, but holy hell, she couldn't deal with their…whatever… in such close, shared quarters anymore. They tried to be discrete, the problem was they were woefully deficient at it.

Amy stepped from her room into the hall, gave their closed door a set of irritated bangs for good measure, and made her way to the stairwell.

It was one of the golden times of the day. There was a two hour break every morning and evening when biting insects had a leisurely changing of the guard and one could go about unmolested.

Down on a side lawn, a group of children were embroiled in a game of soccer. Starr smiled to herself when their ball skittered toward a group of Spec Ops Sangheili. One of the aliens stepped out and flicked the ragged ball into the air with his foot and bunted it back to the teens with his head, causing the juveniles to break out into hoots and cheers in high amusement.

Amy made her way to the Kitchen: a large construction tent which now served as Fort Champlain's only chow hall. There were folding tables set up inside with a soup kitchen line of foods. Rations being what they were, cuisine largely consisted of stews and soups in huge pots prepared over gas burners behind the serving line. As she took up her place in line, Starr saw Grand-mama Larouche bustling about. The old woman's influence had brought actual taste to many of the utilitarian meals. And, she was thoughtful in a deeply touching way. As soon as she found out Amy preferred oatmeal she made sure the option was always available.

There was genuine sentiment there which crossed the language barrier and Amy was certain Penny had let her grandmother in on some of their conversations. Starr's Gran had made her oatmeal before bed almost every single night after she moved to Earth and there was a long-held comfort with the simple food.

After dousing her bowl with three packets of sugar and a heavy shake of cinnamon from an industrial canister, Amy walked back to Fairfield Army Medical Center and took the supply stairs to the roof.

'Korid was sitting on the ledge, back to the sunset, legs dangling off as she approached.

They had fallen into a nightly ritual of stargazing from the rooftop for the better part of two weeks. It was never a spoken thing, it just happened, and it had become as natural as putting on socks in the morning. They would sit up there with their backs to the sunset and watch the stars come out and talk until the bugs became unbearable. She still thought of him as an ass-hole, but at least he had stopped being a _total _dick. His company was surprisingly enjoyable and, she knew if she was really honest with herself about it she wasn't an easy person to talk to: too defensive, quick to be snippy, overly sensitive about anything that looked like sexism or machoism. So, he got points for not ditching her. He had even snipped playfully back at her a few times, as awkward and totally _un_smooth as it had been.

"I hope you don't have any plans of sleeping tonight, 'Korid, " Amy said as she set her bowl aside and climbed up on the crown.

He was still ardent in refusing to tell her his first name and she was dutifully an ass about it.

It had become a contest, of her determination and his will, of its own entertaining proportions.

The Elite shoveled a scoop of gray slop into his mouth with utensils which resembled corkscrewed chopsticks and chewed in a complicated and distinctly Elite manner, "I did not sleep _last_ night," he grumbled.

Once Torsch learned to keep his temper in check and not lash back at every perceived insult or put-down, he realized it could actually be entertaining to talk to her and let the irreverent things she sometimes said roll off of him, or, much to his surprise, snap back at her with a crude remark of his own. It was highly inappropriate on his part, but he increasingly found himself blatantly ignoring the ingrained and viciously reinforced instinct to ignore her goading. Though he still felt, at times, disgusted with this unusual lack of self control. There was no explanation for it. Their conversations remained safely away from personal matters and were more like general information-sharing on cultural differences. He could, and did, justify it as a form of recognizance, but had no reasonable excuse for his conduct aside from grasping at a feeling she invoked which was unfamiliar and terrifying, but compelling.

"I don't think the whole _floor_ slept last night, and they're at it _again_, just FYI," Amy drawled.

He was definitely going to have to speak with his second-in-command about the volume of his consort. It was embarrassing, and obscene, and put his mind to thinking things better left unthought.

Torsch clenched his mandibles and sighed wearily as Amy settled herself next to him, "You will have to excuse his…_enthusiasm_," he muttered irritably, cutting his eyes to her, "Kote is a rather young man."

Amy poked at her oatmeal, "You say that like you're not."

It was as close as she had come to directly raising a personal subject. He was as good at avoiding those as she was, even when discussing things which no doubt applied to him. That had also become a subtle battle of wills, with both of them skipping over the details of their own lives.

'Korid thought about her statement for a moment. While he was certainly not old by Sangheili standards; not yet middle age; humans matured at a disproportionate rate. He was almost the age which humans, under the best of circumstances,_ averaged_ for the totality of their lives.

"Different circumstances," he rumbled, "Kote lost his wife and," he paused. While his mind had automatically sought a way to steer the subject away from himself it was not his place to divulge another man's personal matters.

Amy picked up on his hesitance and sensed an advantage, "Were you ever married?"

He barked a single laugh which spoke the full absurdity he felt of such a question. Then he shook his head ruefully and, for the first time, allowed his guard down, "No."

For one, he was completely devoted to his military service. A career in Stealth Operations was not conducive to keeping a wife happy. Then there was the matter of his deficiency in aesthetic appeal to the opposite sex; and the fact that he did not know how to deal with females; and that he stayed away from them as if they were a plague because in general they made him uncomfortable.

"I am not precisely what women of my kind desire in a husband."

He was barely what they desired in a mate, and his only real experiences with women were not particularly ones he cared to repeat. The one female he had managed to successfully woo on two separate occasions had made it clear his military record and divergent genetics were the only reasons she was interested and willing to consent to him. Had it been possible to receive his seed without _him_ actually being involved in the process he was certain that was what she would have preferred.

"I find that hard to believe," Amy quipped, breaking him from disheartening thoughts.

There were times Torsch felt utterly baffled as to what to think of her. Human languages were rife with nuances. Slang, colloquialisms, idioms, and subtext which were all downright confusing in their own rights…and then they had this notion of _sarcasm _thrown into the mix.

Military transmissions could be translated without full fluency because military communications were void of much of the things which gave language flavor. Torsch could understand, read, write, and speak six human languages, but he never felt as if he really _knew_ them. It was little different than having had to learn the nuances of the dialect of Berov. The language structure and the majority of the words had been the same, but the rest had been just as foreign as learning the native tongue of the Kig-Yar.

It had occurred to him over the course of their many conversations Amy did not understand the nature of what she was doing as related to _his_ cultural upbringing. Despite that, he did not particularly like the way it made him feel nor the thoughts it sometimes set to war in his head but neither could he seem to bring himself to be concerned or angry about it anymore.

'Korid gave her a wan look and Amy smiled up at him, "After all, you're so charming," she added sarcastically.

He gave a playfully derisive snort.

"Procuring a mate for a common man has little to do with _charm," _he explained.

A second glance, a particular sidelong look at an acceptably attractive female, these were the indication of breeding interest. From there it was the woman's responsibility to review familial and service records and decide if a male was worthy of further consideration. Females held almost all decision making powers in matters of breeding, other than being required by law to copulate with whatever Swordsman happened to find interest in them, they could be selective. Courtship rituals were structured and followed formal rules which were only feigned as coy discussions. Enjoyment was not a priority. Sex was required only to be a functionally sufficient event.

"_Functionally. Sufficient." _Amy repeated slowly, as if the words were awful, "Jesus, 'Korid, that's the most unromantic thing I've ever heard."

The Elite looked out at the darkening night and cocked his head, drawing his mandibles together thoughtfully. Romance was a completely different social ambition altogether and had nothing to do with a basic desire to further ones line, "I wanted her to mate with me: I was not attempting to convince her to propose marriage."

Starr almost choked on a mouthful of oatmeal as she laughed, "God, you're such a man."

His facial features furrowed, "Yes," he agreed.

Amy snickered to herself.

Their respective worlds were different in most ways but universal truths seemed to be stereotypical ones. He fancied himself quite manly and his way of doing things as superior...and if she heard him say _'in my culture' _one more time she thought she'd scream. Yet, she found herself looking forward to these evening talks with the same kind of excitement a child looks forward to their birthday. She liked hearing him talk.

He was every bit the arrogant man but there was also something else, something Amy couldn't quite make sense of in the context of his species, his gender…the war.

"Were you married?" he asked.

It was amazing how war made life past tense. Amy spooned another mouthful of oatmeal and thought, _Almost, _before answering, "No," she pushed the memory away as quickly as it made an unwelcome appearance, "It turns out, I'm not exactly what men of my kind want in a wife," she refitted his words for her own use.

Torsch was puzzled by that answer but, despite the smile curving her lips, thought better of prying further or making comment. In his culture, there was only one reason a male could have for refusing a female's proposal and not have her brothers hunt him down. 'Korid was certainly not going to go there or make light of _that._

Amy was thankful for the silence which followed; thankful he seemed willing to avoid the subject she dreaded most. For her, relationships which might have actually gone anywhere with men who were determined enough to scale the wall she built around herself eventually ended because of three words: Too. Much. Baggage.

"Stop picking at that," 'Korid ordered as Amy scratched lazily at her side.

She looked over at him, lifting her bowl above her head and scratching her ribs furiously like an ape just to spite him, "It fucking itches," she complained.

"That is a good sign."

"Well, tell me that when you have one of these things glued to your skin making you itch," she snapped.

'Korid slowly swiveled his head in her direction, his face a blank mask. Amy hated it when he looked at her like that, it did weird shit to her insides, "Tell _me _that when you are subject to being covered over a quarter of your body," he said in what she took as the best mocking tone he could manage.

A part of him thought it would be better if he kept on avoiding personal topics. But, he liked talking to her. It was entertaining to allow himself to be inappropriate in a controlled and guarded manner though it was confusing and beyond his station. There was no harm in it. While part of him warned about the dangers of letting himself become comfortable with her, he already knew it was too late for that. Torsch was not comfortable with people getting too close, _women_ getting too close, but she was damned well managing to do that. A willful part of him refused to back away against the better judgment of his memory.

She paused in her scratching and lowered her arm, thinking hard about what he had said, "What happened?" she asked.

It was not an injury he ever had want to discuss, he was not certain why he had even brought it up. It was the only reason women had any true desire of him and had precipitated a very unpleasant and lengthy experience at the hands of a calculating Mistress.

"I was…within the kill radius of a plasma grenade," he said hesitantly, "I was initially sent home with the intention of allowing my mother the rare honor of a corpse to prepare for cremation," an uncomfortable smile tugged at his mandibles then his face fell and he muttered, "I should not have survived."

Amy heard it, that tone which translated his words as meaning he wished he hadn't survived.

'Korid shifted and rolled his shoulders, "I was home for just over a month," that smile again, then that defeated fall again, "before it was determined I was well enough to return to full service," he forced a laugh, "My mother informed me she knew I would be fine all along, she said I was too obstinate to die."

"She was proud of you."

"Very."

Starr felt a twinge of jealousy but when she turned to look at him, the far off, pleased expression on his face wiped selfishness away and pulled at a very basic part of her that was female. _Aww, the big scary Elite loves his mommy, _she thought.

"Though...she insisted I was not well enough to be up after two weeks and attempted to scold me for leaving my bed," he said in the tight, insincere irritation of an adult who had enjoyed being cared for as much as he hated it.

"And?" she chided.

He have her a sly look then sneered, "And, I grabbed her and danced her around the kitchen."

Amy burst out laughing and heard him chuckle in response. For the first time, the sound which escaped him wasn't cautious but free and full of amusement. It seemed there actually _was_ a layer of vulnerability under all of that Sangheili bluster.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

**Outside New Saint Etienne/In the shadow of **_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

"Come on," Lucinda coaxed gently, dribbling water on the Elite's twisted mandibles. The facial appendages twitched, his cracked and busted lips curling up in a slow, gap-toothed sneer.

_Consciousness returned in gradual measures, each time it seemed as if it took more and more of his dwindling strength to pull himself from the void between life and death. He could not give in to the desire to let go and die: he could not leave her here. Her voice echoed in his head and he allowed himself to feel. _

_The pain of numerous injuries was worth the comfort of her touch. _

_An eye balked but opened against gummed over fluids and blood matting it shut. Her image was blurred and doubled against repeated trauma, but she was there. A sense of victory trickled through him. So long as he woke to her, and not the emptiness of death, he could count himself victorious. He would deny Izakkus the satisfaction of his death for as long as he could and force the beast to kill him outright instead of cowardly relenting under the pain torture. _

Lucinda Deléon felt her chapped lips twist into a smile when his blood-stained eyes looked up to her. Again, his body had tried to right itself while he lay unconscious. Scabs covered much of him. Channels of flesh had been scored away. Gaping chunks of missing hide and muscle were crusted over. A thin film of shiny, smooth new skin was unable to completely cover large wounds. Blisters had abated and he curled what was left of his fingers into a weak fist. As he drew up a leg, she could see the hoved material over his toes was trying to reform.

As much as the knowledge he was waking and still alive brought her relief, the understanding that his respite would be short lived crashed in on her. She shushed him, doing her best to be quiet, to keep him quiet; to tend him in these precious moments without drawing attention. He took a deep breath, water dripping from her fingers onto his swollen, raw tongue and trickling into his mouth.

Running her hands gingerly along his arm and shoulder, Lucinda could feel knots of angered and abused tissue under cool, clammy skin. She wasn't sure how much longer he could hold out, the fact that he had this long was some kind of perverse miracle.

_He wanted to sit up, but as he moved pain gripped his chest and he could feel his hearts falter, sending radiating spikes down his arms to his elbows. He could barely force his left side into action, he could feel his mandibles and brow ridge drooping, tingling against brain damage attempting to right itself as he lifted his head. _

_Worth it. Every agonizing second he allowed himself to be present in this hell was worth being near her._

"No," Lucinda admonished, her small hands bracing against his shoulder.

The Elite gave a cough that was probably an indication of his discontent but obeyed. She lightly stroked his face, earning her a gurgling, broken purr as she lay down at his side and draped an arm across his battered neck, sharing as much of her warmth as she could.

Sounds filtered in. Somewhere, a bird chirped, its piercing call breaking through the murmur of those outside the cavern. Deléon closed her eye for what felt moments when the sound of footfalls and chatter jerked her awake.

The suns had begun to set, evidenced by the long cone of dusky glow falling from the cave mouth and curving up the far wall to set the ceiling alight. Elongated shadows wrapped upward as the creatures drew near. Lucinda could feel the air burning in her lungs as she tried to breathe, tears spilling across her cheek as she gripped her companion's arm tightly.

The energy barrier collapsed with a fizz, taking with it its eerie pink glow. There were snarls in a foreign language and Lucinda felt the Elite's body jerking as it was tugged.

"No," she sobbed as she was partially dragged along with him.

There was angry chatter and Deléon buried her face against him, clutching him tighter. A hand closed around her arm and she wailed: a raw, inarticulate scream full of all her torment. Movement stopped as the Elite was suddenly released. A startled Jackal gave him a swift, hard kick in the head when his chest hit the ground and he groaned.

"Stop it!" Lucinda yelled, pulling herself over the apex of the Elite's bulk, struggling with legs that refused to work, moving against throbbing, piercing pain in her lower body, "Get _away_!"

The smaller aliens seemed stunned silent for a few beats as the human girl sprawled as best she could across the Sangheili's back. There was a bark from outside the cavern and a slouching brown Brute turned to give answer. Lucinda thought her heart would beat right out of her chest at the heavy footsteps thudding angrily through the cave.

The animal which rounded the corner was huge. A muscular beast covered in shaggy blue-gray fur, white highlighting the rough angles of his face and tapering to a scraggly goatee which dangled from his chin. A dark, poorly-fitting fur cloak hung across his shoulders and fluttered heavily behind him. The garment shone green at the edges as dusk backlit his imposing figure. He settled a few feet before her, arms folded.

A heavily clawed paw of a foot tapped thoughtfully before the beast erupted in laughter. He reached down and grabbed the trembling, barely conscious Elite by an arm.

"No!" Lucinda screamed, small human hands balled into fists, pounding on the Brutes fingers with all she had, "Don't hurt him anymore!" she screeched.

The creature just laughed, shoving Lucinda aside like a rag doll and dragging the Elite upright.

"_You see this?" Izakkus jeered, his words barely making it through the tattered veil of returning consciousness, "Do you see it?!" the beast shouted into his captive's earbud, sending words bouncing around in his head. _

_A furry hand grabbed hold of his jaws and forced his gaze to the human girl. Her body was outlined in a doubled haze, but he could see her in a heap on the floor, her face in her hands as she sobbed. _

"_The _Great_ Legion Master," Izakkus sneered, spittle ejecting through clenched teeth, "mourned by a _human_." _

_Mandibles throbbing, face clamped in Izakkus' hand, he looked upon his solace, his undeserved mercy and mumbled, "...she is more than _you_ will ever have…" _

_The Jiralhanae seethed and roared his outrage at the other man's insolence. Even near death the Sangheili refused to break. A heavy fist clubbed the damaged, but willful, captive's head and the world returned to darkness._

* * *

**Fort Champlain**

"I thought Sangheili weren't allowed to know who their fathers are," Amy said in frustration.

Torsch had been trying to explain the nuances of who was responsible for the care of women in his culture, but she was determined to muddy it up with questions and awkward lines of reasoning.

He scratched at a lower mandible, "It is…complicated. I am not certain you would understand."

"Try me, _'Korid_," Amy said, her eyes narrowed playfully in challenge.

It was cloudy, promising to be an utterly starless evening. That didn't seem to matter to either of them. They sat atop the hospital roof enjoying a salt-breeze as it blew in from the ocean. It was just enough to keep the night insects in hiding. Though the suns were still bright on the horizon, the smell in the air threatened rain.

Amy pursed her face petulantly and glowered up at him.

In general, 'Korid found she kept her interactions with others consummately professional. It was only when talking to him she seemed to bawl up and get outrageously flirtatious. This especially seemed to happen when she felt provoked, which he seemed unintentionally quite proficient at doing; or when he insinuated she might not understand some cultural detail; or when the subject turned uncomfortably personal and that frightening electric feeling crept into the air around them. Despite the increased occurrence of the latter, and how he was able to irritate her without exerting effort, she seemed as uninclined to terminate their nightly habit as he was: stars or no.

He sighed heavily.

"The law only applies to males, and open affection or favor of any child is forbidden, but most choose to acknowledge their daughters if for no other reason than to provide another line of shelter from potential suitors."

"You take the _sheltering_ of women pretty seriously _in your culture_, don't you?"

"Yes. They are disproportionately fewer in number. Brothers are obligated to see to their sister's welfare; a woman who chooses not to take a husband is cared for by her male kindred, including her father and, later on, that will be a duty assumed by her sons. It is a rare occurrence when a woman must survive on her own. Some make that choice, and few are allowed to become part of the homeguard, but those are exceptions made under only specific circumstances."

Torsch really hope that answer was satisfactory. He had come to the conclusion early on Amy was simply a wounded female attempting to function by fighting back against the things she understood as unjust. It was plain to see there was a viciousness percolating just under the surface. It was never his intent to insinuate females were incompetent or inferior based on gender, though that was the way she seemed to take his side of these conversations. It was a defense mechanism on her part, the same as his general moodiness.

"They're never self-sufficient?"

"My mother was," he rumbled matter-of-factly, "for a long time. She was allowed to leave the colony and return to the homeworld because her intent was to provide a better life for her children," he squared his shoulders defiantly, "She did so knowing she would be alone once she left. I never truly understood how hard it was for her until I was an adult myself."

Amy wished she could just let it go, but there was an ache inside which hung on like a bulldog. She wasn't trying to start a fight with him. It wasn't his fault his society was so repressive. Still, the cavalier manner in which he answered irked her to no end.

"They can't ever join the Covenant?" she prodded.

"Only those who...whose clans will not have them sold should they be of no…_value_. All women learn basic martial skills as free children are required but it is _not their place_ to make offensive against an enemy," he said earnestly.

Amy slowly turned and glared at the side of his head, "_Their place_?" she repeated, "And where would that be? At home and pregnant?" she asked in a tone which indicated she was not amused.

He could feel her looking at him. A mandible twitched, "Yes," he answered, certain he no longer wanted to continue having this conversation.

Everyone had their place in a functional society, even females. The Writ was merely a confirmation: _'…according to our station, all without exception…'_ He did not see why this was a difficult concept to understand. It was evident even in the current odd arrangement on this planet. Everyone had their part to do.

"Maybe some of them want to be worth more than their…their…their..." she stammered, her voice rising as irritation built upon itself, "their _reproductive organs_," she finally hissed, "And what do you mean _'of no value'_? Because they can't have children?"

There, she came out and said it because he clearly wasn't going to. He had been tiptoeing around the issue for a half-hour but she finally put it into words.

He snarled frustration, "That is not an entirely accurate assessment. Women have charge over most domestic issues and all familial record keeping, and they are permitted to…"

Torsch did not understand the thinking of women, had no desire to, and humans were peculiar, but he was not dense. When he turned to look at her he could see she was hurting. Something about this subject…

That was when it hit him. This mattered to her because hers was not simply bitterness in the vein Sangheili females spewed on behalf of womankind. Amy's bitterness was specific and personal.

"You cannot have children," he said in stark revelation before he could stop himself.

Her face contorted and he could see she was trying to contain the feelings and fears those words evoked. 'Korid had never hurt for another person before. He considered himself compassionate to the extent self-preservation would allow. That reached just to the tip of insecurity he could understand, but as he sat looking at Amy's tormented face, genuine pain twisted up in his chest and he had to convince himself it had nothing to do with wanting to reach for her, to touch her, to hold her…

He had no frame of reference for what to do with women who were insecure. Angry, yes, insecure, no.

'_It turns out I'm not what men of my kind want in a wife,' _the statement rang in his ears and suddenly Torsch felt his hearts sink into his stomach.

To Amy, his words had sounded like an accusation. Starr did her best to gather up those angry, escaping emotions and stuff them back down. So what if he knew? So what if he was aware of her major deficiency as a woman? What difference did that make? Just because women in her circumstance were as undesirable _in his culture_ as she had been when Allen found out, what did it matter?

They were just talking. At most she would say he was her friend. It was harmless. It wouldn't change anything, she hoped, and it was not about suddenly finding herself afraid he wouldn't want to talk to her anymore because she was fundamentally _damaged_ in his eyes.

To his credit, 'Korid sat there, staring out at the clouds as they slid past in dark billows, and said not one more word. He didn't ask how or when or why. None of the questions which had always followed: the stuff Allen had known but hadn't pieced together until she had hit him over the head with it...five _years _into their relationship, eight months into an engagement. She always thought he knew, thought he had figured it out from the start, but he had still been upset.

Amy crossed her arms and hugged herself. She didn't want to think about Allen: 'Korid was not Allen; 'Korid barely had a personality where Allen had been Mister Charisma. 'Korid let his anger burst out in the open in all its glory where Allen had kept his contained and almost contrite.

Amy pulled her legs up onto the buttress, hugging her knees. "Do you have children?" she asked softly, "You know, out there somewhere?" she motioned to the sky with her chin.

'Korid felt a mandible twitch, unnerved by this whole topic and the turn it had taken in the direction of his personal life. He desperately wanted to avoid _this_. "Yes," he answered curtly.

"How many?"

'_How many', indeed, _he thought, "I…I am not certain," he mumbled, not daring to even watch her reaction from the corner of his eye.

The small laugh that escaped her cut him to the core, "Alright then, _playboy_," she huffed, her mirth an ill-disguise for disgust.

Torsch felt all of his muscles tense defensively as tried not to let his blood pressure skyrocket. He might not have been familiar with that term but it translated quite well.

"_It is not like that_," he snarled, with far more anger than he had recognized.

It was not like that at all. Few common men were unable to number their children. Most of them fortunate enough to have offspring could count them on the fingers of _one hand_. Torsch had absolutely no pride in the fact he was in a distinct minority generally reserved for high-ranking Swordsmen. It was not a situation he wished to think about. It was _not_ associated with pleasant memories, let alone an experience male pride would allow him to admit had been rather horrifying.

Starr had moved hastily away at his outburst. When he turned to her, she was half-sprawled across the wide crown with her booted feet the nearest part to him, propped up with her hands behind her, looking back at him with wide eyes.

Yes, his reaction had startled her; jerked her from the depth of her own turmoil and right back to the present. He clearly wasn't the embodiment of what she expected a man in that situation to be. He wasn't proud of himself, and by the look in his eyes, he was actually haunted by whatever was lurking in that part of his past.

She saw his shoulders slump and he bowed his head miserably as he looked away. She realized right then what she had seen before hadn't been him. Those angry reactions and all of his vicious explosions of temper were his defenses, but they weren't him.

It was not a game. She had not intended to hurt him. Why could he not make himself believe that? "Amy, I…" he began.

"No," she interrupted, slowly rolling back to a sitting position.

Without giving it a second thought, she scooted close to him. He tensed for a second when she reached for his elbow and lifted his arm, manipulating him so she could snuggle close and put her head on his chest. It was a devastatingly frightening move. She had never been big on comforting others. It had just seemed like the right thing to do. The conversation had turned too quickly to subject matter which struck emotional chords in both of them. It wasn't completely his fault.

As her cheek settled against the warmth of 'Korid's chest plate and she wrapped her arms around his narrow waist, Amy's mind seemed satisfied with the answer of how it would feel to touch him. Though, she hadn't been aware that was even a question in her head.

Torsh felt her give him a reassuring squeeze. In that moment, he knew all was so easily forgiven. A smile played at his mandibles as he put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close as he dipped his snout to the top of her head and let her hair tickle his face. She smelled of flower-scented soap, sugar, oats, cinnamon, and woman.

The rate of his hearts kicked up and the sudden urge to run his hand along her exposed skin, the desire to feel her soft curves pressed against him streaked unabated through his baser consciousness. Every part of him that was male railed against his iron self-control and years of denial. He wanted her in the most basic way. She was a human but she was also a woman: shunning him as unworthy one moment then giving every indication of willingness the next, _in his culture_. He silently cursed himself for a rake as arguments chased themselves around in his head.

_What in nine hells was wrong with him?_

All this woman had to do was _touch _him and his lust was sent wandering practically unbridled. It was unnerving that the reckless streak he had worked so hard to ignore, the defiant part of him which he thought had been long ago whipped into submission had suddenly made itself known and announced it had not a damn to give.

Amy could hear the rhythmic sound of his hearts through the plate on his chest. A soothing noise which was both organic and mechanical, timed to perfection. He smelled like clean Sangheili. A odor she imagined was similar to a freshly paved road which had been scrubbed with all-purpose soap.

Male. He definitely smelled male. That lightly musky, almost primitive scent that stirred something inside of her which had been dormant for too…

_Whoa, whoa girl, _she chided herself, _he's an alien. Those thoughts are so out of bounds. _

The breeze picked up and brought in a clean whiff of the nearby ocean. They were both trying to ignore it: that something which had shifted. It was as if some significant moment had passed. Apprehension and excitement flickered intermittently, the sensations elusive and still somehow leaving her wanting more. Starr didn't dare move for fear of breaking the spell or egging it on.

She didn't have to do either.

"Amy," he said her name like a question, his tone thick with what hung around them, his voice like brushed velvet.

A cold spike shot through her making her skin blossom with gooseflesh. One word: two syllables; but the longing that one word held made her heart squeeze and did unfathomable things much farther south.

_Time out, _logic screamed, _Amy, stop it. You don't think like this, you don't _feel _like this. It isn't _safe.

_Moody, alien ass-hole, _fear chimed in, as if listing a few of 'Korid's lesser attributes would bring her wall of self-defense springing back up.

Yes, she had been reminded of how frightfully easy he was to anger. But…he was also warm, and felt so strong, and his sentiments could be hurt and driven to outbursts of despair as easily as hers could.

And, he was holding her close...not pushing her away.

As fear and logic wrecked havoc in her mind, Starr's body decided to make its own, generally ignored demands.

There was a muffled crackle and a few security lights flicked on across the lawn below. Dusky yellow was thrown in swatches of dull illumination in patches on the ground. With a hum, a few blinking red bulbs kicked on at the corners of the roof in warning to non-existent aircraft. A blue-white safety panel clicked and thumped to life near an external breaker back-up near the stairwell. And, a dim electric squelch heralded bits of the post's pa system coming back to life.

Amy and 'Korid looked around at the happening as a few cheers rang out below. Then, everything fell silent as a ghostly sound began filtering out into the night.

A long, mournful sequence of classical strings rose softly and, for a moment, Amy's ears refused to process what she was hearing. Elegant, somber music flowed from the pa speakers, rising like a swelling tide. With gentle, liquid fluidity, a female soprano melded in, her words as much blending with the accompaniment as rising above it. All elements came together and were transmitted seamlessly out into the night and even the air seemed to still in reverence.

A few people walking below paused while several more poked their heads from tents or emerged from doors. Lieutenant Colonel Dover emerged from his makeshift quarters and walked out onto the lawn. A wistful smile spread across his face as he lifted a glass in toast.

Amy looked up to see 'Korid's head tilted intently.

"It's music," she whispered, "Tell me they have music in your culture."

She felt the sharp rise and fall of his chest as he chuckled deeply, "Of course we do," he rumbled, "I was simply not aware humans were capable of something so…_dignified_."

With good reason, Amy supposed. So far her species' musical talent had been displayed by groups of soldiers butchering cadences or mouthing off tunes from the top twenty list. Some of them would mimic musical accompaniment, badly, while someone else belted out lyrics, usually off key and pornographic in nature. Not the finest examples available.

But this, Amy didn't have a clue what was being said but after so long, nothing she had ever heard came close.

_Props to Doctor Guthrie for pushing to get the pa system back up and to whoever decided to announce it like this. _

"I wish I spoke French," Amy sighed, thankful for the reprieve from her inner torment.

She felt him laugh softly again, "It would do you no good in this situation."

"Oh?"

"She is singing in _Italian_."

Starr cocked her gaze up at him and saw him looking down at her, his mandibles creased into a smile, his snout almost touching her nose. Her heart thumped an extra beat. "Okay, smartass," she grinned, choking down apprehension at what she felt was his sudden closeness, "What is she saying?"

He closed his eyes and listened for a few moments and Amy watched the lines of his face. "She is missing her lover who has gone to war," he said silkily.

Amy nodded thoughtfully though there wasn't a thought in her head. Her skin felt flushed and tingly and she worried her heart might explode out of her chest. Whatever this feeling was that had snuck back up and grabbed her was terrifying. She nestled back against him with a ragged sigh and let her ears soak up the sound.

"Amy," he said again.

Cold spikes shot through her at the sound of his voice and set chaotic fluttering loose in her stomach. Starr suddenly wound from 'Korid's embrace, throwing her legs over the roof-side of the ledge, needing to move, needing to do something, needing a distraction. _Any _distraction.

Something had frightened her, he could sense that much. When she grabbed his arm as she turned and stood, he brought his legs over, still seated as he followed her around.

"Come on," she said playfully, giving his arm a tug, "Get up."

He gave her a suspicious look, "Why?"

"Because," she answered sharply, _tug, tug_, "You're going to dance with me."

"What!" 'Korid chirped in surprise, pulling his arm from her grasp.

"Oh, come on," she pleaded like a child, flopping her arms in mock exasperation, "I _know_ they have dancing _in your culture_," she gave him smart look, though her body protested this choice of distraction with a sudden weakness in her knees. It was the first thing that had come to mind.

_Stupid brain_.

A mandible twitched, "Yes," he said with measure, "but it is usually a…that is, between non-familial persons…" he scratched the back of his head.

"Seriously?" Any droned, "Is there anything in your culture that isn't a preamble to sex?"

He clicked his mandibles, "Very little."

Amy gave an exaggerated sulk in response, "_Come on_," she insisted, stomping one foot.

He huffed, "You are wasting your time with this argument," _and upsetting my hormones, _he silently added.

Amy growled at him then turned and walked away, snapping playfully over her shoulder, "I promise I won't make you have sex with me afterwards."

_Well, just tell him what you're thinking there, Amy._

There was silence as she paused with her back to him berating herself. When she turned, his eyes were narrowed to reflective slits and her heart landed near her feet. He folded his arms as his brow ridges lowered angrily and his jaws clenched.

"Um," she croaked, not liking how suddenly pissed-off he looked. _Oh, God, what did I say now?_

He gave a bovine snort, his face a mask of contained fury from the flat of his head all the way to the turned-down corners of his mandibles.

After a long, tense moment he rumbled in a low, deadly voice, "You say that as if you presume I would not wish to."

Her brain stopped working.

He quirked a brow ridge.

"Uh," she stammered.

'Korid stared at her like that for a what felt a small eternity, then, one corner of his mandibles lifted and his lips drew back as a fang punctuated grin spread across his face.

_You smartass son of a bitch, _she thought,_ So, there actually is a sense of humor in there somewhere._

Amy burst out laughing in relief, "Alright," she sang, "alright," grudgingly acknowledging he had gotten over on her. She stepped to him and pulled on his folded arms, "Then get your smart ass up, _'Korid_."

* * *

**Outside New Saint Entinne/ In the shadow of **_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

"…_hear me…reptilian piece of garbage..?" _

_The words floated through his brain as if from a great distance despite the heat of Izakkus' breath and spittle assaulting his face. As his eyes faltered and fluttered open, his vision was cloudy. All movement was a blur. Everything was smudges of color which refused to come into focus. He could feel the ground sliding beneath him as he was dragged across the worn earth. His head slammed into the ground when he was dropped and the air was forced from his struggling lungs._

Izakkus was in a frightful rage. Much of the gathering which collected for the shows of torture backed or slunk away as he emerged towing the Sangheili. It seemed the sight of their pack leader in a fit, not calm and merry, had quelled their excitement. Which only fuelled the Jiralhanae's fury.

"Do you hear me?!" Izakkus howled, giving his prized captive a kick in the ribs.

_A reflexive wheeze was the only response given. He never fought back. Today, Izakkus had been so incensed as not to waste time putting him in chains. It would not matter. He accepted what was done to him with all the resolve of the already damned, breaking down in screams only in the moments before consciousness failed him, when his mind had forsaken his body. _

_Sight blurred and wobbled like a defective terminal link as the gray-blue and emerald smudge paced at his side. The Jiralhanae's words ribboned through his mind lazily, echoing across damaged ears. _

_In these moments, awaiting torture, with his body unwilling but his mind in pieces, delusions rose up. The imaginings pushed forth from a dying psyche blossomed under the strain to hallucinations which took hold of his senses. _

_He could smell the sweet incense of ceremony, feel the cool linen of his Kaidon's robe and the summer breeze of Sanghelios. The conqueror, the ruler, on his face welcoming death. _

_Thousands of soldiers lost to his selfish cause returned to the shadow of their flagship. He could seen them even now, standing at the fringe of the dispersing mass to watch their Legion Master suffer his rightful agony, to bleed so that their deaths might be avenged and set before their ancestors honorable. He could hear their spilled blood screaming from the ground for vengeance. _

_A respected, powerful man. These were still his soldiers; they did this because he ordained it, ordered this punishment. They _would _absolutely obey him. This was what he deserved! Until he was dead he was god in this legion!_

_Mad laughter erupted from his mouth. _

The sound pushed Izakkus over the edge. The pack leader fell on his captive, "You have uttered your last!" he bellowed, grappling with twisted mandibles splayed in psychotic merriment.

Thrusting a furry hand down the Sangheili's throat, Izakkus grabbed hold of the creature's tongue and stretched it from his mouth. Channels dimpled in a v below the juncture of the captive's jaws and the pack leader drew his blade, cursing.

Muffled, choking laughter turned to wet, gurgling squeals as the Jiralhanae carved the lines in the Sangheili's neck, hacking until her could tear the unruly organ from the other man's throat.

Stained, powdery yellow eyes lolled back in the captive's head as slurps and coughs sputtered deep purple from the gaping wound. The disgraced man gagged and struggled to breathe against his own blood rushing to drown him, his body seizing and unable to coordinate movement. Izakkus gave an irritated snarl, dragging the Sangheili up to hang limply from the pack leader's grasp.

"…_fight me!..pathetic snake..!" _

_Vision doubled, color drained, heat washed across his chest as a chill lit across his skin. The moment the Jiralhane released him, dirt rushed up and he heard his head ring hollow against the ground. Sensation completely failed and sound swirled away like water down a drain. _

Izakkus' anger was nowhere near spent. He hauled the Sangheili unceremoniously back into the depths of the cave and slammed his fist against the control panel, sending the energy barrier crashing down. He tossed the captive in then paced the opening snarling and cursing, keeping curiosity from without well staved.

This had gone all wrong. He could not break this Sangheili as he wished. The insolent lizard did not know when he was defeated. He would not beg for death, he would not plea for mercy, he would not…

Movement caught the Jiralhanae's attention from the corner of his eye. Izakkus turned to see the small human girl, long dark hair tumbling in tangles across her shoulders and spilling down her back as she crawled toward the Sangheili. The young woman placed a small, pale hand against the captive's chest. Struggling to sit, she swept the luscious dark hair from her face, revealing a primate countenance. Tears paved clean a path down one hairless cheek.

'…_she is more than you will ever have…' _

The Sangheili's final words lashed back and a sneer twisted Izakkus' face, _But, think I_ will_ have her. Now._

He stepped into the cell and grabbed the girl by her hair, jerking her up and slinging her across the floor.

Confusion and pain. Her world was yanked sideways and her painful body slammed to the rocky floor. Lucinda couldn't right herself and the Brute was on her in an instant. Her lower body throbbed and ached as she wriggled against his bulk threatening to crush her. For the first time in a long time the instinct to fight rose up and she shoved at his neck as he hungrily lapped at her skin.

Izakkus reveled in the tiny cries and the outraged squeals, the way she fought but was too weak against him.

Fear and agony tugged her toward unconsciousness. She could feel the rough texture of his fur; smell his odor; hear the click and snap and rustle of strategic clothing being pushed aside. She screamed, shoving ineffectually against his chest as he leaned over her and licked her face.

_The sound sank into his brain like lead in a stream. His senses returned in starts. Misery assailed him. Weakness from blood loss bid him to give in to death. _

_He could hear her crying…not in sorrow but in pain and in fear. _

_His eyes flicked open and everything wavered in and out of focus. A ringing pierced his ears and sang above the muffled, far off sound of her struggling. His gaze trailed along the winking perimeter lights of the inactive barrier, the pale shard of bone protruding from the stump of his right arm, the pack leader draped in a Legion Master's cloak, and beneath the beast…_

_She__ was going to be ravaged by Izakkus. _

_Realization pushed the poisons of panic and rage through his veins. This was his fault. The ringing in his ears closed off to silence. She did nothing to deserve this. Pain fell away as a corona of red blurred his vision and everything became awash in a murky film of crimson. He brought this filth here; he let this happen. Hearts racing out of synch and lungs seizing, his body trembled with the effort to collect under the weight of his injuries. His damaged brain began misfiring against the flood of chemicals rerouting information. It was too much. The second before the world collapsed to black he felt his hearts stop._

_He died._

_He was reborn._

_Focus snapped to both body and mind as senses were set afire. Lifting himself from the rocky floor, abused body screaming in protest, everything he was and had ever been collected in on itself in a vengeful fit of wrath. _

Lucinda clamped her eyes shut as the Brute shifted his weight over her, raking his claws against her skin as he lapped greedily at her chest. She gagged in revulsion and tried to will her mind elsewhere. He forcefully manipulated her hips to an alignment which suited his goal as he panted hot, sticky breaths against her neck.

Warmth exploded across her chest and the Brute choked, his body going rigid, giving tiny, spasmic jerks as another wash of thick heat hit her in a hard spray. Lucinda opened her eye to see her assailant staring back at her; eyes vacant, jaw slacked, tongue lolling, blood rushing from his open mouth. Lifting her gaze, she saw gnarled, stubby, scaled fingers tangled in the hair on the Brute's crown. The Elite towered above them on unsteady legs, with the pike of his arm buried to the elbow in the creature's neck as sharp, pale shards protruded from the opposite side.

With a trembling, mute snarl, the Elite cranked the Brute's head back and jerked: the bony weapon tearing the beast's throat out. A line of gore was slung across the ceiling in an arc and the Brute twitched as blood swelled in an ever weakening flow. The Elite gave Lucinda's would-be attacker a kick in the ribs and sent the corpse toppling like a felled tree away from her.

Violently snatching the dark fur cloak from the Brute's shoulders, the Elite stepped to Lucinda as she tried to collect herself and draped the garment over her nakedness.

Silently, her companion turned and began pulling the belt from the tangle of clothing at the knees of the Brute's draining corpse. He slung it across his own shoulders and retrieved several grenades which had rolled free and clipped them within easy reach. Lucinda looked up, mind refusing to accept what was happening as the Elite crouched at her side, bundled the fur around her, and collected her up in his arms.

* * *

**Fort Champlain**

Even being short for his species, 'Korid was still significantly taller than Amy was. There was odd fidgeting as she got the impression this act was probably _way _different_ in his culture_. For starters, as a species, the Elites had atrocious natural posture. Then, there was the fact the Stealth Major acted like he had no clue what she was talking about. Amy wondered if they would even make it through the basics before the inordinately long Italian composition eventually died out.

He didn't seem to have a concept of stance, or frame, or position, or hold, or _anything._

Or maybe he was just being a pain in the ass.

Once the extreme fundamentals were worked out, they stood there for a moment like two teenagers at prom trying to respect the ten inch rule, "Okay," Amy puffed, "You lead: you're the man."

Torsch growled deep in his throat, _at least their cultures agreed on that much_, he thought.

Amy gave an _eep _of surprise when he hauled her against him, "I am well aware of _that_," he hissed.

Starr threw her head back and laughed despite the fearful sensations making her extremities tingle.

'Korid snarled inwardly as his eyes wandered traitorously to her slim neck. _Oh, gods, _he groaned silently, _why in the hells did I agree to this?_

Starr hummed along with strains of the melody and let herself be led along, occasionally stumbling over his feet. Okay, _mostly _stumbling over his feet, vaguely aware of the rest of the world. He was warm and solid. Though, dishearteningly uncoordinated.

"Okay," Amy said, stepping on his foot, "you need to..."

He hissed angrily, rounding his shoulders and forcing her back, his hand securing her against him with pressure on the base of her spine , "Quiet, _woman_," he jeered in a whisper, compelling movement and turning her forcefully.

Amy snickered at his determination, feigning irritation and biting down on her lip with a grin, "Feel the music," she teased back, "I was gonna' say '_you need to feel the music'_."

Which was an odd statement, because it was definitely not the music _she _was feeling. 'Korid was like a sturdy wall of muscle holding her with just enough force to remind her of how brutally strong he really was. Yet, there was something else in there. She had seen it. All of his temperamental ass-hole-ishness was to keep people away, because being a jerk created distance…_and distance was safe. _

The very thought made her heart skip.

He swept her around, semi-gracefully. And for an absolute half a millisecond, it came close to being like actual dancing.

A warrior he was: a dancer he was not. He would have happily admitted that. Besides, the _music _was the _last _thing he wanted to be feeling. It was on the list, somewhere after nuzzling the skin of her neck just to see if it felt as wondrous as it looked and finding out if the rest of her was as creamy colored and smooth. He startled at the unrestrained rambling of his mind and bit back a curse at his suddenly unruly libido.

_What in nine _hells_?_

"This is so not working," Amy mumbled in a laugh, tripping over his toe.

He tightened his grip at her waist and leaned so near she felt his mandibles brush her cheek, sending a cascade of warmth clear to her toes, "Stop fighting me," he said in a smooth rumble.

Amy suddenly found she couldn't breathe. His voice was threatening like distant thunder and as silky as liquid smoke. She could feel the plate of armor covering his groin as it brushed her stomach and felt suddenly very aware of what part of his anatomy it was protecting.

"I know how this is done," he purred.

It was completely out of line and he knew it...for so many more reasons than the readily apparent. Had she been Sangheili, his audacity at such a statement would have been insulting given his place as a common man. The words alone were innocuous, but he had said them in a tone intended to put the lesser castes in their place. The problem was, Amy was a human and she seemed to have no concept of _her place_.

Starr's mind told her she shouldn't say a thing. She should disengage and retreat to a safe location. But, in that moment, she told logic and fear to buzz off.

"Prove it, _'Korid_."

The barb sent a wave of heat through him and he growled defensively. His leading hand releasing hers to slide carefully down her arm with measured slowness, his hands easily encircling her waist.

She hummed in response, instinctively reaching to drape both arms across his shoulders, pushing up to sway on her tiptoes and looking back at him with open, delighted challenge.

Unconsciously, his gaze drifted from her eyes down her face, across her upturned human nose to study a wide human mouth ringed with full lips. Torsch could feel all sane thought and sense of decorum evaporating.

He suddenly became concerned with the practicalities of how to attempt going about this. Even as she nibbled at her bottom lip and it became obvious her mind was right there with his, there was a part of him which wondered if humans had truly evolved a similar intimate gesture or if he was about to make a huge mistake and she would think he was trying to bite her face.

Amy could feel his hesitation. It annoyed and terrified her more than she would acknowledge. When her eyes inadvertently traveled the configuration of his mouth, a flare passed between them and their gazes flicked together.

It was one of the few moments in his life 'Korid could have admitted he was afraid. It was more than varying facial design. Kissing a woman had never been warranted. It was a display of affection no female had ever desired of him. Courtship and sex had always been strictly utilitarian events not charged with any degree of passion.

A flush of heat chased a cold trickle through him at the realization there was a name for what he was feeling.

_So be it. _

"My mother named me _Torsch_," he snarled.

The rim of his snout and the tips of his mandibles made contact with her lips and there was a moment of shocked stillness from both of them as their brains tried to accept what was happening. Then, mouths shaped at variance moved against one another seeking alignment.

Amy heard herself moan into him as her senses spun out of control and her bones went completely to mush. She was certain if she let go of him she would ooze into a puddle at his feet.

Body and mind stirred beyond sanity, 'Korid let his tongue push against the soft fullness of her lips begging entry. She responded with an eager relenting that made his body ache. Despite care, his teeth grated the skin of her jaw and cheeks but her assertive responses lent themselves to no illusion of concern or coyness. Quite the opposite. Her tongue was smooth against his own and the rhythm with which she explored demanded he do the same.

What in all of Christendom was wrong with her? Amy didn't have random, passionate interludes. Everything in her past had been carefully calculated with men who were safe, not alien men who had short fuses and could so easily turn her on to the point of delirium. This wasn't safe. This was not even in the same galaxy as safe. It was terrifying. It was...amazing.

Fire surged through her to pool heavily between her thighs as Torsch began to suggestively dip and withdraw between her lips. His tongue was rough like fine sandpaper, softened with saliva and gently prompting.

When he tore his mouth away from hers, Amy remained wilted in his arms, tying to have a cohesive thought as the shattered bits of her sanity refused to come together. He wasn't looking at her. His chest was pushed forward and his head was raised, tilting from one side to the other like a satellite seeking a signal.

"Inside, now!" he suddenly roared, turning her toward the stairs and half lifting her from her feet.

She stumbled forward a few steps before he snatched her up and threw her across his shoulder. They made the door and 'Korid began acrobatically slinging himself down the stairs using little more than the railings. Amy could barely breathe as she clung to the lines of his armor and the butt of the rifle across his back.

"'Korid, what is…" she tried to ask as he slammed through a door and dashed down a hall, still toting her like a sack, bellowing intermittently in his native language. As he rounded the corner to their corridor, he set her on her feet just as explosions sounded in the distance.

There was a ripple effect of movement. As Amy rushed to check the rooms there were shouts and snarls and people of differing species scattering and rallying. The _click_ and _thunk_ of weapons being exchanged and the rumble of feet against the floor added to the panic. Gunfire rattled in the distance. Screams and shouts tore through the halls and erupted outside. The squeal and howl of Banshees cut through the air. A line of close detonations made the building tremble as Amy ran from room to room again, shoving her way past people filling the hall.

"I can't find Penny," she cried, leaving the pregnant woman's doorway and rushing to 'Korid as he was shouting orders to nearby Elites. Without so much as pausing to hear her concern, he grabbed her around the waist, snatching her from her feet and thrusting her into Eeth's arms with a wrathful hiss.

"_Get her out of here!"_ Torsch raged to the Stealth Minor in Sangheili.

"Wait, what's going on?" Amy shouted, trashing in Eeth's embrace.

"You have to go," 'Korid snarled, "You must get out of the city."

The panic in his voice was frightening.

Sage eyes turned to the Minor, "_NOW!" _Torsch roared.

With no further explanation, the Major wheeled and charged down the hall, pulling the rifle from his back as Eeth took off with Amy in the opposite direction.

By the time Torsch made it to the main entry doors on the lower floor, a hail of gunfire sounded from the front lawn. Shouts and screams seemed to come from every direction. The squall and wail of Banshees pierced the air and another explosion rocked the building, sending down acoustic tiles and a rain of drywall dust.

Kote dragged Penny through a side entrance, trying not to hurt her as the woman hollered and flailed.

"Grand-mama!" she screamed, legs kicking air wildly as 'Hakkarm held her secure with an arm awkwardly around her chest above the swell of her belly. He bodily hauled her across the main atrium.

"Get her out of here," 'Korid growled to his second.

"Grand-mama!" Penny sobbed, violently throwing herself against Kote's restraint.

Torsch grabbed her trashing arms and forced her to look him in the eyes as another detonation made the foundation tremble beneath them, "Where is she?" he asked sternly.

"In the Kitchen," Penny cried.

Torsch and Kote exchanged glances.

"I have ordered the file from the city," 'Korid said as evenly as he could manage, "Get her out of here," he squeezed Penny's arms, "You cannot stay. I will find her."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

**Fort Champlain **

N'Rule crouched in the bed of the truck. His feet were braced against opposite bed walls as the vehicle peeled through ditches and jostled down the road. Eyes scanning, ears picking apart various sounds, hearts tight in his chest, N'Rule was unsettled by Major 'Korid's order for the file to exit the city. It was to protect their humans but unnerving for a creature so accustomed to charging_ into_ battle.

The Sangheili had been out on perimeter patrol, far from the inner complex, with Private Cory Trice when the melee began. An encrypted mapping transmission had bleated from the small device in an armor pouch, relaying the order from 'Korid piggybacked with coordinates from 'Hakkamr. It was at that moment N'Rule knew any charge into battle would be only to retrieve the remainder of the file, the human females, and any other humans if safely feasible. Whatever was happening in the distance had warranted an emergency transmission through the file's mapping relays: a tactic which spoke desperation in and of itself.

When they turned from the perimeter road and began twisting their way toward the hospital throngs of unarmed civilians rushing to escape scattered before them. Taking a left, Trice cursed and sent the truck squealing to a stop as Eeth jerked a door open and shoved Amy into the cab before mounting up in the bed with his file mate.

All irritation at being plucked up and hauled off like a helpless damsel needing rescue had faded. Starr's mind had already shifted from the need to dig in and fight to evacuating the civilians. On the dash across the training field-turned-campground, Eeth hadn't had any of her arguments. He had orders and those orders were to get her out, everyone else could just be damned.

Trice circled the quad cab dually and took aim down an overgrown jogging path toward 'Hakkamr's last beacon. They found him trotting along carrying Penny, a dark giant among a swarm of humans rushing to escape. Cory rolled to a stop and there was a tense moment when panicked people rushed the truck. The Minors piled out, rifles and swords drawn, and made a defensive circle of the vehicle while Kote settled into the bed with a huffing, pained-faced Penny. They lifted a few civilians onto the tailgate and crammed four into the back seat of the cab. N'Rule barked for Trice to move out and the Minors sprinted along the truck's side as Cory made for the rear of post.

A UNSC light utility truck was tearing its own path through the brushy overgrowth, jostling civilians who clung to one another in the tattered, canvas-covered bed. The truck veered along the roadway and fell back to follow them. Thank God they had gotten more vehicles up and running. Recent additions ran like pigs, their internal wiring removed and the capable vehicles forced to basic mechanics with an old fashioned pull or bump start.

A troop hauler rumbled from another side street, civilians huddled together in a knot in the back. The vehicle fell in line; wedging itself between the utility truck and the one Trice was driving. A set of Warthogs slung through the trees dodging the trucks, slowing just enough to pick up Eeth and N'Rule before taking up flanking positions following the small, impromptu evacuation convoy.

The Elites intermittently leapt from the vehicles, sprinting ahead, fanning across the underbrush in curves to latch back onto the side of the smaller troop carriers as they rounded the bends. The party hit the back roads of Fort Champlain, winding past air fields and old hangars; random fenced off slabs housing rows and stacks of connexes; scruffy patches of woods once used for field training exercises, turning from the main thoroughfare and forcing their way down abandoned roads long ago left to crumble. They rolled to a stop at an over grown and locked back gate. Concrete barriers were interspersed with Hedgehogs, the iron barricades looking like giant versions of toy jacks shackled together with large chain. Eeth and N'Rule made quick work of the roadblocks and Trice plowed through the chain link fence just beyond.

The convoy turned onto blacktop which swung along the backside of Fort Champlain, the instillation a buffer between themselves and New Saint Etienne in the distance as the sounds of war faded into the background. The road was little more than two lanes marked off with white dashes down the middle. As the vehicles plodded along at a hurried clip, occasional signs marking the entrances to training areas, various artillery and rifle ranges, and miles of restricted bogs and trails caught in the running lights. All vehicles were running in blackout, the light of the moons casting blue-gray on the blacktop.

Amy sat in the front passenger seat feeling numb, unable to think. With the passenger's side front window busted, air rushed in around her as the sounds of the vehicles following and the whine of the civilian truck's tires on textured hardball filtered in. For miles the darkness rolled past and the distant rumble of combat faded into the night.

Eventually, the tree line thinned, opening up to dump them from government property practically onto 287. There was the choice of the six-lane interstate which would take them northwest back to New Saint Etienne or southeast to Cean, or a straight stretch of road which cut through the unincorporated county of outer Caddo.

An on-ramp curved to their right up to 287. The convoy rolled on beneath the six-lane bridge and into the remnants of Old Town. Once the hub of the region's colonization, the town wasn't even a blip on any maps. A ramshackle gas station; an old stone church backed by a huge, ancient cemetery; and a run-down café which had changed hands a dozen times in the previous decade were all that was left. Before the Covenant had shown up it was a good spot for cops to catch teens drag racing, or the other things teenagers with their first cars were known for. Other than that, the stronger of the businesses had barely been kept alive by the sparse outlying farming community; commuters from Cean running low on fuel; and soldiers headed to a field training exercise stopping for last minute snacks.

Old Town had become Old Town more than two centuries before when the UEG claimed unincorporated land for Fort Champlain. Central operations moved with the construction of the Alsace Dam and Aquifer System and New Saint Etienne crawled west toward the ocean like a creeping slug, leaving its old self behind. What had once led to a busy main city street became just another ill-kept, two-lane state highway, cut off from the city it birthed and all but consumed with the construction of Fort Champlain. The six-lane interstate had obliterated much of the town's streets and claimed houses and businesses. All that was left to signify Old Town had ever been more than a cluster of fading buildings was a historical marker outside of the church.

Amy motioned for Trice to pull over and the convoy limped to a stop in the gravel and mud lot between the gas station and church. As she climbed from the dually's step side and hopped to the ground, Starr looked back toward post to see the distant glow of fire visible just above the tree line. Stepping to the truck bed, Amy ignored for the moment the bloody and ragged Staff Sergeant who hobbled her way trailed by a few other soldiers who disembarked various vehicles.

"How are you holding up?" Amy asked, leaning against the bedside on tiptoes to see Penny cradled in the v of Kote's legs.

The pregnant woman shifted and smiled through a pained expression, "I'm okay," she lied, badly, "It's not getting any worse."

_It _being labor pains.

Starr forced a smile and nodded, meeting Kote's concerned and angry expression as the Elite subtly shook his head.

_Goddamnit, _Amy silently cursed. They had to stop. Penny had to rest. If she didn't get wound down…it was too early, the babies would never make it…

"Um, Sarge," Cory pulled her from the terrible thought and Amy turned to see the soldiers had formed a semi-circle a respectful distance from her, Eeth and N'Rule standing behind. They all looked as grim as she felt.

_Well, shit…_

_Damnit, _she was a technical engineer. Sure she had gone through all of the training, but the closest thing to being a boots-on-the-ground leader she had was chewing out a corporal for screwing up a sanitation field report.

No one else looked inclined to step up. Even the Elite dick-weed who had followed orders to the letter to get her out of the city was looking at her half-expectantly.

_Fuck it. _

"You and you two," she pointed out three soldiers, "make a sweep of the station and see if you can round up anything to get fuel out of the ground tanks."

Liquid cooled hydrogen engines could run on piss if necessary, even the civilian variant, but that was a last resort which could do irreparable damage in the long run and Amy couldn't let them slip into that kind of desperation just yet, "Eeth, N'Rule, take those four and get a perimeter going. We won't be here long but I don't need anything unfriendly sneaking up on us. The rest of you, check the wounded. We can't stay here forever but we have to…"

"_Sarge!" _Trice practically shrieked. One of the Stealth Minors leapt forward and shoved Amy to the ground. The entire collection of soldiers hunkered down and fanned out, taking defensive positions behind the trucks. Weapons peeped around the sides but no one fired a shot.

Amy's cover wobbled and suspension protested as Kote shifted in the bed. An ugly growl rolled from the Stealth Major as he stood, activating an energy sword with a crackling pop.

Starr flattened herself against the dirt and gravel and crawled beneath the truck bed to see the cause of the sudden commotion. From the shadow of the church, in the alcove between the main building and a simple parsonage, a priest stepped out into the moonlight holding a large bore, double barrel shotgun.

"Wait!" Amy hollered, low crawling the expanse beneath the truck and hauling herself up on the opposite side in the open, "Wait a minute," she said, turning in a circle, hands raised palms out in plea to all. She wasn't a particularly religious person but it still felt all wrong to draw down on a _priest._

"Sarge," Cory admonished, fear rising in his voice.

Kote 'Hakkamr gave a deadly hiss and dismounted the truck in one graceful step as Amy completed her circle.

_Oh, shit…_

The lanky cleric paused and a portly, bearded man in biker leathers stepped out of the shadows to his right wielding a rifle while a younger man in State Police motorcycle gear with his service pistol drawn closed the left. They made quite the interesting trio.

"Just…_wait_," Starr insisted, taking a step between Kote and the motley group, "Look, we're not here to cause a problem for anyone," Amy turned from the twitchy Elite and made her appeal to the priest, "We just need to…"

A stifled moan from the bed of the truck interrupted her as Penny's troubles made themselves evident. Kote snarled and Amy could hear the pregnant woman panting.

Starr wanted to scream in frustration.

The cleric lowered his gun, brows knitting from behind thick glasses. He came forward as the biker and the cop fanned out to cover him. Amy gave 'Hakkamr a reassuring nod and the Elite deactivated his sword, growling as the priest took determined steps toward the truck. The withered man looked in on Penny, his eyes going wide before he turned and slowly looked the group over. A few civilians peeped from trucks and soldiers cast furtive glances from their positions.

The cleric motioned for his unlikely cohorts to lower their weapons and turned to Amy, "Bring her inside."

* * *

**Outside New Saint Etienne**

According to the date stamped on the bottom of the can, the pear halves would have held out for another six months. Lucinda Deléon sat on the edge of an overstuffed, battered couch, gingerly cramming chunks of pears into her mouth, completely unconcerned with how grimy her hands were. Nothing could ruin for her the amazing experience of eating real food and not having to wonder what, or who, was in it. Around her, an old house sat pretty much as it had been left after a fire. Tangles of decorative ivy had overgrown to cover the raw wood structure in a blanket of gold, star-shaped leaves. A few tendrils encroached through holes and cracks in window panes and cascaded through the open front door. Even after who-knew-how-long, the whole house looked somewhat lived in, like the residents would return at any moment to cut back the vines and reclaim their homestead. It smelled like a moldy fireplace with overtones of fragrant foliage and undertones of whoever used to live there.

The kitchen had been violently gutted and stood covered in soot, old ash, and dust. Broken tiles littered what was left of the floor, ivy poked up through a sagging hole in the middle; appliances were warped and melted; cupboards had pulled from walls, spilling their contents onto the counters and floor. The remnants of broken dishes were in piles along with bent utensils and the tatters of cereal boxes. Dried leaves and bits of debris had made their way in from the open doors and windows to settle along baseboards and in a heap with an overturned and twisted rug in the adjacent hallway. The ceiling drooped.

Lucinda stuffed another pear bit into her mouth, lolling it with her tongue and squishing it carefully with aching teeth. A line of sticky, sweet juices dribbled past her chapped lips and down her chin to drip onto the oversized clothing she had found. Brown and yellow plaid old-man pants were held up with a dry-rotting belt tied around her waist; and a gray and white striped dress shirt with a ruffle collar billowed around the rest of her. Shirt and pant cuffs were rolled like thick sausages around her ankles and to her elbows. There was a faded, pink and orange polka-dot scarf tied at an angle around her head.

Through a side door, she could see the Elite in the grainy light of morning circling and sniffing at the ivy swathed, rock surround of a covered well. He was shaky on his feet, shuffling about carefully, and she could see his battered hand tremble as he clutched a machete dotted with rust. Lucinda had wanted to make him stay in the wood line and rest, but before first light he had stirred. She had recognized too much determination in him, and though he was showing signs of slowing down as the morning progressed, she wondered how he was managing to keep going at all.

His species was clearly resilient to injury, and the Brutes hadn't tortured him as savagely that last go-round, but he had lost a lot of blood. They had cut his tongue out for God's sake. She had given up hope, for him, for herself; and then he had risen from what she had thought to be certain death, pushing himself mercilessly, carrying her along with him to freedom.

After killing her attacker and collecting up weapons, he had gotten them to the mouth of the cavern, clutching her against his chest with his mangled, bloody arm. She had turned in his embrace to see Grunts and Jackals milling about in the dusk amongst several groups of Brutes. The furry creatures were in clusters throughout, gnawing on bones and picking their teeth, while the others chattered, or napped. The scene had been disturbingly peaceful; everyone contented, not at all like a war zone. Seeing the Brutes had sent a spike of fear through her, fear that radiated across her injuries and screamed in her head. Any excitement at being so close to freedom had ended in terror at just seeing those monsters. All the things Lucinda had tried so hard not to let herself remember had sprang up and torn through her head.

Dreams of escape were nothing more than vivid fantasies. Those had all burned out long ago after seeing what happened to people who tried to get away.

Before horrific images of being caught could play themselves out, the Elite pulled a grenade from the belt across his shoulder. He clicked an unseen tab with his remaining thumb and a soft blue glow began radiating from his fist. Lucinda had buried her face against the side of his neck and detangled herself from the soft emerald fur to hold tightly onto him. The Elite reared back and from the corner of her eye she had seen a hazy blue orb arc lazily toward a group of Brutes. When he had pulled a second grenade, activating and throwing it in one fluid motion and crouched like a cat ready to pounce, Deléon had felt the thrum in his chest as he made a sound like a contented growl just before chaos erupted.

The first grenade garnered a surprised roar from the unaffected groups of Brutes and sent the Grunts into frenzied and disorganized scattering. Jackals screeched and hissed angrily, and the Elite had bolted from the cave at a dead sprint. Yelps and roars had risen from every direction. Grunts dove for cover and screamed in panic while Brutes attempted to rally themselves. The Elite was tearing a path, unleashing a hailstorm of grenades as Lucinda had held on for dear life. She had been momentarily unaware of the pain in her body as adrenaline kicked in.

Blue and green bolts of plasma had streaked past as their captors realized what was happening. Explosions began sending walls of earth skyward. Chunks of hot dirt hailed down on them and Lucinda felt it pelt against her bare arms. Sound stopped registering. She hadn't been sure if it was the excitement of the moment or physical pain reaching from numbness to drown out her senses.

A wash of hot gasses had blanketed her skin as she felt the Elite's body coil for an instant. Everything tilted backward. She had lost account of which way was up as he hugged onto her more tightly. Then, Deléon had been slammed bodily onto the hatch of a Banshee with the mangled alien smashed painfully down on top of her. Lucinda felt as if the world had fallen away in a sharp, gut rolling drop before pain overrode everything and she had blacked out.

The inside of the craft had been awash in faint purple light when she finally opened her eye. Through a wide seam in the vehicle's side, Lucinda had seen the hint of the suns still peeping above the horizon in the distance far below. She felt crisp, clean air tickling across her skin.

A Banshee was not designed to fit two and the Elite had been wedged on top of her, though most of his bulk was propped thoughtfully on one side. She could feel the sharp hitch in his chest as he gulped for air. Tiny tremors had wracked his body in waves.

He had set the vehicle down in a thin copse of trees and bucked against the hatch, rolling himself over the side cowl and landing on the ground with a hollow _thud_. Lucinda had scooted out the tail, dropping to the forest floor and crawling to his side. He had been unconscious, but still breathing. Deep, labored breaths stretched his battered hide as his upper body rose and fell in a gentle rhythm. Lines and scars were caught in the eerie pink glow of the Banshee's running lights and the sputtering twinkle of sparks which flowed from the vehicle's underside. Deléon had arranged herself near him, pulling the cloak across them both as best she could. She had looked up through the trees to see the sliver of an early moon through overhanging branches. The air was more clean than any air she had ever breathed and the dirt and detritus beneath her felt like luxurious bedding.

She lay there for hours listening to the night creatures make their noises; trying to convince herself it was real until sleep finally overcame her.

The Elite didn't so much as twitch until morning.

Hunger, exhaustion, pain, and the prolonged combination of those things had once made waking and realizing she had lived to face another day a sad event. But _that _day had been different. Lucinda woke to the soft warmth of earth beneath her.

Free.

Her companion stirred with groans, tossing the fur from his body as he had forced himself to his feet. He had looked down at her, the two of them staring at each other quietly until her stomach had given a loud grumble. Tilting his head to one side, the Elite's twisted mandibles had drawn into a smile.

They had walked through the woods with him sniffing the air and her holding the fur closed around her with one hand as she pulled it along behind on the ground. She had clutched the crook of his mangled arm with the other hand as much for her sake and his. He had been shaky on his feet and she was in no position to walk on her own. Still, there was an unspoken resolve between them which had carried forward. It was an understood failure to openly acknowledge the other's limitations, even in any efforts to close the gap of one another's ability.

She had watched him when they came upon a wide stream as pink and orange streaks of sunrise colored the sky. Dropping to his knees beside her he had sniffed at the gently running water and growled happily while she scooped water to her lips. Then, he paused and simply stared. Lucinda watched as he dipped his hand slowly into the stream. The shape of his palm and what was left of his fingers left little to cup and water wound down his arm in a slow trickle to drip from his elbow. She had seen how their mouths worked, kind of. Their tongues rested in their necks and could be pushed out and forward to close the gap between their lower mandibles to funnel water down their throats or assist with swallowing.

He had sat back on his haunches and scratched at the raw, v-shaped wound to his neck with a sigh. When he moved to stand she had grabbed his arm and shook her head, leaning to cup her hands in the water as he crouched back down.

Lucinda reached to the stuffed and brimming knapsack on the couch next to her and pulled it close as she choked down the last pear halve. She had found a lot of useful things, but the one she was most proud of was a gravy boat, missing its handle and rolled amongst abandoned linens, clothing, and salvageable canned goods and other things. He didn't like having to have help to drink just as she didn't like having to have help to walk: Lucinda's issue had been addressed and so would his.

Drinking the juice from the can, she looped the knapsack's strap over a shoulder and across her body before pushing herself to her feet. Shifting her baggage and draping the cloak over her shoulders, Deléon took up a gnarled and worn cedar cane and hobbled toward the open side door.

The house had been a treasure trove of things left behind and Lucinda had been a bit surprised, and thankful, at what the pervious residents had abandoned. The cane had been found in a broken coat rack with a few tattered umbrellas, everything tangled with ivy which had crept in from the main door. It looked as if life had been interrupted by the fire and left almost as it was. Soot-stained pictures still hung on the walls. There were shoes of varying configurations and sizes left to curl and rot in a corner.

The only food which remained in the singed pantry had been a few dubious glass jars with unidentifiable contents and a row of commercial canned goods with peeling or no labels. Lucinda had found the knapsack on a peg near the main door, dumped the items it held and collected up her canned bounty, leaving the glass jars. She had then limped her way up the wide staircase with the aid of the cane in search of other goodies. The Elite had left her early on; satisfied she would be alright on her own as he set off to rummage the out buildings.

She had made her way down a creaking hall. There had been shock when she caught sight of herself in a cracked, full-length mirror. Deléon hadn't believed the image at first, walking the length of the room, approaching the dust covered surface as if it were simply lying. Dirty, bruised, scratched, splattered with dried blood, Lucinda let the fur slip across her to the floor and could have counted every rib. She saw the girdle of her hips against a nasty bluish swelling which deformed one side. Pushing back her long, matted hair, Lucinda had looked into a face she barely recognized. Gaunt, with the socket of her left eye drooping and empty.

The scarf had been knotted on the mirror frame and she had pulled it loose and tied it across her head, hiding her missing eye. Then, she had rummaged through closets and drawers, jamming select items into the knapsack and pulling clothes over herself.

In a bathroom she had found a few unopened bars of soap in a drawer, a tube of dried toothpaste, a small medical kit stamped with a suggested replacement date of two years before. There was all the usual stuff which lurked in a cramped medicine cabinet. All potentially useful items had gone into the knapsack with the food and clothes and linens.

As Lucinda stepped out onto the tiny side porch and began making her way down a set of ivy covered, stone steps, the Elite looked up from his task. An odd expression lifted one side of his scarred face as his eyes traveled across her colorful outfit.

"Do you like it?" she asked with a girlish giggle, turning in an awkward circle when she drew near.

His jaws curled into a smile and he nodded, making a sharp barking sound deep in his chest.

"Good, because I found some things for you, too," she said, patting her bag.

The Elite snorted and eyed her playfully.

"People are supposed to _wear clothes,_ even if they look silly," she sang, earning her a bemused brow lift.

"And do you know what else people are supposed to do?" she asked, undeterred by his skeptical expression as she rummaged in her knapsack. He inclined his head to one side and made a low mewling sound as he leaned nearer in interest.

"They take baths," Lucinda said, pulling out a bar of soap.

* * *

**Old Town**

Stepping into the main chapel from a narrow side corridor, Amy took a deep breath. From the light which fell through stained-glass windows she could see a few evacuees huddled along walls and sleeping in pews. A couple of rough looking biker types clad in denim and leather were still camped out on the choir steps. Starr ran a palm heavily across her face and worried her temples. It had been a long night.

A hand patted her shoulder, "She's going to be fine."

Amy turned to see an older woman wearing a worn leather vest with braided, graying pigtails flowing across her chest down to her waist. A fraying military-style name tab on the woman's vest read _Foxy Lady_.

"Thanks, Foxy," Starr murmured, "and tell Gator thanks too, that was his medication you handed over."

The much older woman smiled, lines at the corners of her eyes deepening, "Gator ain't all big and scary, but don't go telling him I told you that," she winked, "Besides, he hasn't had an angina attack in months, he won't go missing a few pills."

Foxy Lady's husband, Gator, and her son, Trooper Andrews, and Father Bradshaw had been ready to gun them down to protect the few hiding inside. Despite the initial scare, they had turned out to be more than hospitable. Amy found herself ignoring the signs that the handful of bikers had obvious rebel ties. It had really not been the time or place to be picky, and in the end, these people just wanted to make it out with their loved ones, too.

In a back room with Penny and an older nun was Andrews' baby sister, Gator and Foxy's daughter. Nurses by secular profession, the two nuns had recognized how dire Penny's situation could be. Her welfare became their primary concern. The vicar and the bikers had helped the soldiers get the civilian evacuees into the church while the nuns had focused on Penny.

Father Bradshaw had brought in a half cup of communion wine. He declared the Almighty wouldn't be upset under the circumstance and the nuns assured Penny it was safe and a common practice to combat early preterm labor symptoms. Kote had been a pacing, fidgeting, perpetually questioning mess and had been shooed out about that time. The discussion had turned to other available and unavailable means and when the subject of calcium channel blockers had rolled around Foxy Lady had disappeared and returned with a prescription bottle. Two pills had been ground up and dissolved in a glass of water. As Penny began falling asleep Amy had slipped from the room. She spoke with Kote and reassured him everything was fine. He had looked forlorn and miserable anyway, unmovable from his vigil by the door.

Foxy Lady glanced down the hall at the Stealth Major as he sat with his elbows on his knees, chins in his hands, "That one, he's sweet on her?"

Amy smiled, "You could put it that way."

The two women shared a knowing look. Foxy shook her head ruefully and walked off into the main sanctuary.

Starr heaved a sigh and followed, walking a side aisle, sliding into the vacant end of a pew, and hunkering to rest her forearms on the back of the pew in front of her. She sat there staring off at nothing, doing her best not to let herself think about what had happened miles away the night before.

"Some water, ma'am?"

Amy looked up to see the young State Trooper, a pitcher of water in one hand and a tube of Styrofoam cups in the other.

"Sergeant," Amy corrected, waving the offer away, "I'm not old enough or authorized to be a ma'am."

Andrews smiled wearily with a nod then continued down the side aisle.

The patch on the Trooper's rumpled uniform blouse had given him away as belonging to Gadson Parish, nineteen-hundred miles to the north. According to Foxy Lady, he and the nine bikers had traveled a hell of a lot farther, keeping to back roads, to get here. The Covenant EMP had wiped the grid even that far away. It made sense from a strategic standpoint. Blackout the planet and there would be no help to hinder the smash and grab. Cities from Caddo to Gadson were burning. Cities all over the planet were burning.

People were going mad out there. Starving, getting sick, dying, fighting amongst themselves, murdering. It was bound to be worse in larger cities. New Saint Etienne was the planet's capitol, but it was by no means the largest urban sprawl; and local law enforcement had the benefit of soldiers from Fort Champlain to help deal with the madness. Sure, smaller communities had military instillations, but nowhere near the physical force.

The bikers had wanted to take the priest and the nuns and head up to the Spring Hills to the seclusion of an allied club's hunting lodge. They had been at the church for two days when the evacuees had arrived. Father Bradshaw still refused to believe his work here was done. The priest and nuns had survived off of an old well and a neatly kept garden out back; tended the wounded who stumbled by; and buried every one they couldn't save in the sprawling old cemetery. Father Bradshaw wouldn't consider abandoning his post. He was like the farmers, old timers, and people who had held onto what was left of the memory of Old Town. Even after Covenant attack, this was his home.

"Amy," the deep Sangheili rumble brought her from thought and Starr looked up to see Kote in the middle aisle, "We must talk."

Her mind immediately went to her pregnant friend; panic evident on her face.

"Penny is fine," 'Hakkamr whispered, "They let me see her, she is resting well."

Amy puffed out the breath she had been holding as Eeth and N'Rule sauntered up to their default file leader. The Elites looked at Starr with blank expressions before turning and walking in a neat line to the main entry doors. Amy side-stepped her way down the pew and followed them.

Outside, civilians and soldiers milled about. The Sangheili waited at the foot of the steps.

"It is impolite to listen in on another's conversation, this is a social observation our cultures agree upon," Kote began, "but there is a matter of which you should be aware."

"Alright," Amy said with measure, her stomach twisting into a knot.

"The priest and the Gator gentleman, they are discussing what to do with us," he continued.

Her mind paused for a moment, "Us?" she repeated, "Us as in…" she couldn't say it, she couldn't divide the Elites off like that. They were as much a part of what was left on this planet as the humans. They had fought and died, worked and bled beside humans. They still felt the constant unease of a likely glassing but kept going anyway. It wouldn't be right.

"_All _of us," he clarified.

* * *

**Outside New Saint Etienne**

The human girl was washing the clothing, wringing the various garments and cloths before hanging them from a low lying branch to dry in the warm breeze. She was a curiosity. No female in all of his adult life had been audacious enough to smile to his face and speak to him as if he were a simpleton. He had never been a man with patience for such female sport and had been one with a reputation for cruelty which kept such personal amusement _far_ from women's minds.

But, she did not do these things with any degree of malice which he could detect. She was simply in so many ways…innocent.

The thought sent a cold trickle down his spine; a flare of rage kicking up in his hearts. She was barely more than a girl for her species and had been subject to things he dared not admit he had done to females himself.

No. He _was not_ that man. _That man_ was dead.

Forcing himself back to the present, he watched as she draped a rectangular swatch of cloth along a low limb while humming softly to herself. He had never seen a creature more happy to bathe. She had soaked in the stream and washed herself over and over, even long after he had dutifully scrubbed himself down and unceremoniously tied a rectangle of cloth around his waist.

When he had been gathering wood for a fire she had sat at the water's edge in the sun and carefully raked a comb through her hair, singing. By the time he came back from hunting a sizeable number of small brush rodents, she had been dressed and sleeping in the shade.

With a sigh he returned to his task. He had hoped to have completed the remainder of what needed to be done; but at least he had managed to finish consuming his meal before she woke, choking down the furry creatures after crushing their long bodies. The oblong dish she had presented to him had provided him the ability to drink unaided.

He smiled at the sentiment.

By the time she stirred he had dug a small, shallow trench and set in it a fire which had burned to embers; and sat grinding one of several smooth stones he had located along the edge of a blade. The tool was rudimentary at best: a wedge shaped, ugly, rust covered implement. He needed only that the hatchet be sharp enough to cleave the already brittle and decalcifying remnants of his right radius and ulna. A well angled series of chops would suffice, even with it being from a human implement.

The machete was tucked into the embers of the small, nearby fire; its flat surface a ready cautery.

She did not seem to care that he was horrifically maimed or object to his obvious physical limitations. Though he doubted she would like what he planned to do, what was one more ailment when his body was reeling from so many? It was the only way the wound would heal properly. Coming from a culture which admired scarification as a symbol of virility but balked when injuries lent themselves to diminished asthetics and physical ability, he was amused by this female. She had clearly displayed a desire not to see him hurt.

He did not know what it was to have a woman so blatantly without judgment; who cared for his wellbeing; who made no hesitation at his now unsightly appearance. She had no way of knowing, nor did she concern herself with, who he had been. Instead of driving him to a mad rage, that knowledge made him feel as if a part of his soul were lighter for it.

He was no more and no less than what she saw of him and with that came a sense of freedom…forgiveness…mercy.

Finished with her task, the girl slowly made her way to his side and eased herself to the ground. She watched him in silence for a few moments.

"What is your name?" she finally asked.

He paused in his sharpening mid stroke, turning to see her looking back at him with the hint of a smile.

Without malice.

Open.

Innocent.

He wagged his head. Trying to convey with his lack of words the station in which he now found himself.

She hummed thoughtfully, "My name is Lucinda Deléon," she said scooting to brush at a patch of dirt near him, doodling in it with her fingers, "You have to have a name," she said quietly.

Did she really believe, after all of this, he was simply refusing to tell her? How could he expect her to understand?

He sighed, eyeing the patch of dirt as he set aside the stone and removed the hatchet from the grip he had on the handle with his toes. Stretching out on the ground, he lazily reached for the bare earth.

Brushing away her doodle he scrawled, "_Unworthy."_

Lucinda frowned, "Why? Because you were caught?"

He nodded, _Among other things_, he silently mused to himself.

"But," she protested sweetly, "You have to have a _name_."

He underlined his dirt-etched proclamation.

Deléon squinted, pursing her lips unhappily.

He shook his head in responce. Sitting back up to resume his preparations, he grasped the hilt of the machete, using the blade to sift the fire. As he lifted it from the ash the looped script of the maker's mark blanched white against the width of the blade.

_Daniel Fordyce._

Her small hand grasped his wrist as he tucked the blade back into the embers, "Daniel," she whispered, with more emotion than he could anticipate. He looked down at her, into her serene human face, "_Daniel_," she said, reaching to brush her hand along a lower mandible.

He blinked at her for a few moments. _The absolute audacity…_

A smile crept across his face absent his control and he felt himself dip his snout slowly in honored concession.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

**Outside New Saint Etienne **

The quad cab rolled slowly through the shade of a drive dappled by the shadow of overhanging limbs. The convoy was headed back toward the main roadway. Long tendrils of yellow moss dripped from branches which swayed in the breeze. The battered vehicles had been surrounded by the tall blonde oaks flanking the quaint drive for an easy twenty minutes.

What would have been roughly a forty minute commute from one side of the parish to the other had been a journey which took many hours down back roads and two lane state highways. Avoiding any main streets, skirting well beyond small communities, the convoy had wound through the largely uninhabited outskirts of the county. Fields of grapes and orchards of fruits and nuts blanketed the countryside for miles all around. A few domestic herd animals had been spotted roaming free, gorging themselves on untended fields after making their escape from various dairies and farms.

Mental notes were made as to their location for later use.

They had come upon few groups of civilians. Walking the roads toward post, the people had been pushing various carts and strollers loaded down with their belongings. Ragged, filthy, starving, those who had set off toward Fort Champlain weeks before with the hope of finding help were pitiful at best. It was a striking example of how susceptible humans were to leaning on ingrained social thinking even unto their death. They just wanted to get to the evac center, not thinking they could be walking into danger or pausing to wonder why no one had come for them. Many were in such states of shock as to be left flighty as birds, awestruck by moving vehicles, left confused by the stagnant ships lingering in the sky: a sight those of sound mind had long grown accustomed to and stopped questioning. Most happily agreed to being set in the trucks and taken along, thankful for what they saw as rescue.

However, the last stop they made, for a withered man walking alone, one of the corporals had been attacked and left with scratches down her face. Deranged by fear and hunger, the man had been ardent in getting to the evac center on post, refusing to hear the soldier's explanations. Animal panic at being herded toward the utility truck, the convoy so clearly headed in the opposite direction to that which the man had wanted to go, had caused him to snap and lash out with all of his remaining strength. He had been shucked off and sent sprawling to the ground, crawling away with whimpers and sobs to get up and continue his shuffling trek as if nothing had happened.

"Any more like that," Amy had said as a sergeant inspected the scratches to the other soldier's face, "we leave them. We don't stop. We don't engage. Unless we get a sign there is still a person in there they are…" she hesitated, "…you regard them as already dead. Understood?"

Amy's words had been tight against disgust at making such a decision. The cocoon of safety and logic they had existed in, meager as it had seemed, had made this passage through a decimated land all the more expository. They had been insulated from the suffering which lay beyond their city and it was a cold realization that they couldn't save them all. Protecting the civilians, the colonists, had been _their job_, every one of them, in their own way. The idea that some people, having reverted back thousands of years to animalistic impulse and vague instinct, were already too far gone was hard to swallow.

The soldiers had looked almost sick at the thought, though glints of understanding sparked in their eyes. They had all nodded, shame-faced and Amy knew it felt like accepting so much failure.

_Triaging the living_, that's what the medics had called it back at Fairfield Army Hospital when new groups of people would come in. Segregating the wounded, the sick, keeping the populace safe by reserving resources for those who were more likely to live and letting the rest simply die…God, she was just a _technical _engineer. Starr had been trained to deal with pipelines and water filtration, routing wastewater and making sure the clean water kept flowing, she never imagined she would have been making the kind of call which had been necessary right there by the road.

Amy stretched her arm out the open passenger's side window and let the cool air envelop her arm. Sunshine kissed her skin as they rolled from the tree shrouded drive and began down the highway again.

Despite the few people they had come across along the way, the number of vehicles had more than doubled, not including the five motorcycles. Several more military vehicles had met them at the church the day before while others had emerged from roads which filtered from Fort Champlain out into the countryside. All were crammed with soldiers, civilians, and Elites.

Around eighty souls, human evacuees, newly rescued civilians, soldiers, and aliens now occupied the dusty convoy.

Eighty…-ish, out of thousands; hundreds of thousands if Starr really thought about it; millions if she wanted to take the weight of the world on her shoulders. The part of her which remembered the oath to protect the colonies of the UEG, at her UNSCA swearing in at a small recruiting station all those long years ago, railed against the desire to go back and defend, rescue, to bring as many people out as she and the handful of soldiers and Elites could. But, the practical side of her knew that would be a death mission. Any move to do such a thing would be futile unless there was somewhere for people to go once rescued, somewhere for soldiers to rest and refuel and plan and prepare. And they would have to come up with more weapons…food, clean water.

Shaking off the thought Amy chided herself, _One thing at a time._

Starr leaned her head back against the headrest, tipping her face to the headliner and taking a deep, cleansing breath of fruit sweetened air. There was so much which needed doing and the thoughts weighed heavily on her: of what had gone wrong, of what could be done, of how to start again, of the likely pointlessness of it all, of everyone just dying anyway. She thought of Penny and her babies and Kote, and Grand-mama Larouch, and 'Korid, and thousands of nameless, faceless people suffering or dead.

She sighed, hoping to ease the knots twisting in her stomach.

Kote had been understandably concerned with what he had overheard the priest and the biker discussing, but the problem had turned out not to be so much what to _do_ with everyone as how to _help_ everyone. The church would not have been able to sustain so may for long but Father Bradshaw had believed there was an acceptable solution.

Amy felt uneasy about having been unable to convince the aged priest to come with them. He would have been better protected anywhere but mere miles from post on a direct route.

However, the holy man had insisted on remaining as long as he felt there was a chance more survivors would continue emerging from New Saint Etienne and Fort Champlain. Amy had been unnerved at the very idea of leaving him alone. When two from the biker group announced they would be staying she had then been faced with the problem of which soldiers to order _not _to stay: they had almost all volunteered before she could form the words. She relegated three to the task and N'Rule asserted his desire to stay as well. Kote had agreed to the Minor's request.

With clear directions from those who remained behind, at least stragglers would know which way to go in order to find them. Still, Amy felt a lot like a leaf in the breeze.

They had taken the priest's request to transport the nuns, which had been no major deviation from the plan to get as far away as possible. It had given them a destination and a fair chance to scope out the outlying region of the parish. It had taken hours of careful travel through the unincorporated farmland of the county, but they had delivered the nuns safely to their sponsoring monastery.

At least _that_ was something Amy felt she had done halfway right, and it hadn't exactly been without tangable benefit.

Father Bradshaw had been right.

The whole of the land on which the monastery sat had once be part of the palatial estate of very successful early vineyard keepers. The landholders amassed a fortune, and at their passing, handed the lands down to successive generations. Eventually, the holdings were divided between a surviving son and daughter. The son, having inherited the business and half of the land had no interest in his father's vineyard or company and sold his portion to a commercial winery; the daughter, a nun, upon inheriting the original farm house and the remaining half of the land, had given both to the church. The Sisters of Mercy cleared the land donated to them, built a monastery, and began work in the surrounding community. Eventually, they grew. Churches were built. Clergy came in to see to duties. Hospitals and clinics thrived. They had even had a Convent in downtown New Saint Etienne and had been on the verge of completing a group home for orphaned children of admirable proportions. The women trained as nurse and teachers, and did good in the outer colony. The monastery was a place of reverence, self sustaining, cut off from society, the cradle of the monastic portion of the sister's faith on Ambrosia II where nuns spent eight years in schooling and…became nuns, or at least that's how Amy understood it.

The quaint religious complex was not equipped to receive guests but Father Bradshaw had begged the soldiers to take the nuns there with the hope the two could to make successful petition on behalf of himself, the soldiers and civilians and…the aliens, to allow them to stay…at least nearby.

The convoy had turned from a two lane highway and onto a back county road lined on both sides by dense forest. The only indication of their destination was a hand carved and hand painted sign near a leaf covered gravel drive which had read _Sisters of Mercy Monastery_. The simple roadway twisted through the woods, canopied by moss laden trees, and had eventually spilled them out onto a rutted drive which curved across an expansive lawn. Ducks and geese dotted a huge, sparkling pond. A clutch of drab stone buildings had been in the distance, neatly surrounded by a squat stone wall. The white spire of a chapel had greeted them as it rose from the complex's center; there had been lush, rolling hilltops beyond, and grassy fields draped in vines ripe with grape and muscadine for thousands of sprawling acres in the far distance. The air was sweet with the scent of fruit.

When they had rolled to a stop near the low stone wall several nuns emerged from buildings and began making their way toward the closed wooden gate. Like the two riding in the rear of the cab behind Amy and Cory they were clad in burgundy habits, some with wimples of the same and some with headdresses of white. When the two sisters emerged from the cab there had been much joyful murmuring, a few women beyond the gate clasped hands to faces in disbelief. The gate had been opened and the women were enveloped in warm, tearful embraces. From the side view mirror Amy had caught a few soldiers and bikers crossing themselves.

Then, there had been heartfelt chatter in French and motioning toward the vehicles.

Finally, Sister Penelope, Gator and Foxy Lady's had daughter, had called cheerily, "Amy," waving for the other woman to come over.

As Starr had approached the wooden gate, not at all comfortable with this request but not feeling it proper to refuse, the gathering of nuns parted to reveal a frail figure being pushed along in an antiquated wheelchair. The Abbess LeaAnna was one-hundred and three years old and the land on which the monastery sat had been settled and farmed by her great-great-grandfather. Though the disabled woman's body was clearly withered beneath heavy garments and her hands were knotted with arthritis, her piercing blue eyes were as sharp as a hawk's. The elderly nun had extended a gnarled and twisted hand. Without thought, Amy had reached back, hesitating too late at how dingy her own was.

The Abbess smiled and readily clasped the offered hand in both of hers. Her skin was soft as fragile silk and cold as ice despite the warmth of the day, "_Merci, madame_," she had said with tears in her eyes. Amy just nodded, unable to speak over the lump in her throat, uncomfortable with this much gratitude, fighting back the sudden urge to declare she was not Catholic as if that would somehow quell their thanks.

Turning to one of the sisters, the matriarch began speaking in French, several women nodded as she went on. Sister Penelope beamed as Abbess LeaAnna withdrew an antique keyring from a hidden pocket. She had carefully selected and removed a key and indicated for Amy to take the out-dated token. Its metal surface had shown in the light. The Abbess had spoken softly, her voice a raspy, tired whisper; her eyes blazing with timeless intelligence trapped in a body assailed by age.

One of the other nuns provided translation, "She only wishes she could do more."

The convoy had dawldled for a short time. The Sisters had filled water containers and offered assurances they would send help by with what supplies they had available. From there, the convoy had rolled back down the long, tree canopied drive to the highway.

Trice manhandled the manual transmission into third, picking up speed as Amy straightened her arm out the open window, flattening her hand, tilting her palm and letting the air push and pull her arm up and down, up and down, in swooping arcs. The convoy trudged down the roadway for a half mile before the land cleared to more rolling hills with commercial vineyards and orchards. A wide paved drive greeted them to the west. Turning off the asphalt, they began down a stretch of worn gravel which trailed lazily up a sloping hillside to a whitewashed farm house. A set of commercial waste bins sat forever awaiting service and overflowing with construction leavings near the road.

Saint Vincent's House for Children had been an ambitious and monumental undertaking funded largely by several inner colony charities. It was also an ideal which never came to fruition.

Stifled in a tangled web of code approvals, snarled by last minute bureaucratic paperwork issues, and held up by an ever put-off inspection by the UEG and the Council of Child Services, Saint Vincent's was constructed on the grounds of the original vineyard plantation. Several months from operational readiness prior to the Covenant attack, the orphanage was designed to eventually house one thousand children and juvenile adolescents. Primarily run by the Sisters of Mercy who had not taken vows of seclusion, the group home would have employed fifty social workers, had its own clinic, school, a roster of a hundred faculty, and two hundred support staff who would live on-site.

Down the drive, the original colonial residence sat in the distance. The whitewashed farmhouse sat atop the first rise of rolling pastureland. What would have been the orphanage's front building to welcome guests and new residents was backed by vineyards which blanketed the hills for miles to the horizon behind it. As the convoy neared, Amy could see small, earth-moving Bobcats and other construction equipment parked at odd angles after a day of work weeks ago and left alongside the three story building. Drying, dead ricks of sod sat on pallets at intervals along the drive and a few hundred bundles of shingles sat under a flapping sheet of visquien at the edge of the residence's large front porch.

The convoy neared and Amy startled when Elites dashed forward. They outran the dually, some sniffing the air, some growling and snarling, all with weapons drawn. Trice slowed to a stop as they filed forward at a sprint, fanning out and moving to surround the structure, covering doors and windows.

Starr climbed from the truck as Kote stepped from the bed, "What is it?" she asked, noticing one of the double doors at the front of the farmhouse sat ajar. She was completely unable to appreciate the scope of what stretched beyond the building for fear of what was happening right in front of her.

'Hakkamr sniffed, mandibles parted and lips curled back to reveal rows of pearly fangs as he sucked air through the slits of his nostrils and rolled it across various sensory glands in his throat and mouth. He seemed to struggle with identifying the smell, "Methane, Unggoy, and," he made a barking sound in his chest, "_something else_," he added irritably.

Amy turned and motioned to the utility truck following, making a sweeping circle in the air, "Turn them around," she hissed, her heart slamming at the idea of having walked so happily into an ambush.

"That will not be necessary," Kote growled.

Amy paused and watched the Stealth Major make his way purposefully toward the low front porch, not even bothering to pull the rifle from his back. He bellowed something in an alien language then translated himself for the benefit of the humans, "Show yourselves!"

Motorcycles roared past and cut lines to the rear of the structure, tires skidding in the loose sand, engines popping and revving menacingly, bikers pulling weapons and tightening the perimeter, "You better do it," one of them hollered cajolingly.

Before Kote could step foot on the porch, a chubby alien hand emerge from the crack in the doors. The Grunt's fat fingers were splayed wide as he waved frantically and made a high-pitched appeal from around the door frame, "Don't shoot," he finished in English with a terrified squeal.

'Hakkamr snarled, "Get out here!"

Starr watched as the door creaked open and a Grunt waddled out with his hands raised. The creature was clad in a dusty tunic, unarmed, unarmored, and doing his best not to appear completely terrified.

Kote hissed in both disgust and warning.

The Unggoy leaned inside the door with a hoot and reached, seeming to struggled for a moment before yanking out a short Elite. The creature looked frail, tripping over bare feet which appeared too big for him, as if he had yet to grow into his body like an awkward puppy. He was draped in a battered robe and toyed with thick metal bonds around his wrists, shoulders slouched and head bowed like a scolded child.

The Stealth Major huffed.

"Who are they?" Amy asked as she stepped to 'Hakkamr's side, not sure what to make of what she was seeing.

"That," Kote motioned to the Grunt, "is the legion's Deacon and _that,_" he added offhandedly, eyeing the odd-looking Elite, "is our Legion Master's _slave_."

* * *

**Outer Caddo**

Late afternoon shadow blanketed the countryside. Daniel lay sprawled across the softness of doarmir, Lucinda's head against his upper arm as she slept. Her hair cascaded about her face and he watched her sleep through half-lidded, drowsy eyes. In exhaustion, the Sangheili's mind tussled with itself in wonder.

Lucinda was an odd creature. They had returned to the bank of the babbling stream and spent most of time resting, eating, sleeping, and in her case, bathing.

Daniel smiled to himself at the thought.

During their few days of freedom, the girl had bathed herself repeatedly. Even for a Sangheili, whose species was meticulous about cleanliness, he had never seen a creature who enjoyed a bath as much as this human girl. Lucinda had taken her collection of soaps to the river several times during the course of the past two days, sitting in water up to her waist, her back turned to him in a gesture of modesty as she sang to herself, repeatedly lathering her skin with soaps which had all but lost their faint floral scent.

The shadows of his old self and his previous life had snaked through Daniel's mind time and again, as if the man he once was refused to completely die and had taken to twisting the present instead. It was not viciousness, not a desire to hurt her or see her suffer simply because he could; it was as if watching her in those peaceful moments he wished to grant her all the things which were once within his power to give.

Daniel's mind had drifted to thoughts of a gilded tub and sweetly scented oils, maid servants to tend to her hair, clothiers to drape her in the most expensive raiment and furs. These images gave vague definition to an affection he did not understand and had never before felt.

Lucinda was so…feminine? But, she was not so in a manner which he understood. There seemed to be no conniving on her part, simply an essence that was guiltlessly…woman?

Many times Daniel's mind had drifted to those thoughts and toyed with their implications…for himself, for his bloodline, for a lineage whose history had been shaped and determined based on hatred, guilt, and unforgiveness.

Despite all he had been taught and personally knew about women, Daniel saw how hollow the greatness of his former life had been. Empires and possessions, mistresses and whores, allies and enemies, _honor and law_, and how it had all been full of so much…emptiness.

_How different life would have been if only… _

The ghost from another man's past reached forward through time and Daniel felt his hearts still. Could this be what that accursed Kaidon of antiquity felt as he looked upon that condemned murderess? Across cultures and age, caste and status, had Herra been all the more lovely in Odura's eyes because of an inner beauty he saw in someone so unlike himself?

_What was it the eunuch slave had written: that she had beguiled the master with her innocence? _

Sooty lashes which rested against her pinkened cheek fluttered and Lucinda turned a murky, sleep filled eye to him. A deep drown iris was streaked with bronze and ringed with white like a frightened doe. As she looked blamelessly up at him, all thought ceased and Daniel chewed awkwardly at his mandibles, trying in vain to reconcile his present with a bloodline whose past seemed uninclined to let him go.

As if on cue, a soft sound, clear and crisp, escaped Deléon's rosy lips. The song was in the perfect pitch of a temple choir soloist, with the cadence of a calming lullaby.

It was a sound which reached across culture and race. A timeless measure of comfort so simple in composition, the tune spoke a truth which would never be extracted from the lyrics.

Their species laughed the same way, wept the same way, and they used music to sooth in the same way.

Closing his eyes, Daniel let the melody seep into his brain. Lucinda's fingertips lightly brushed along a lower mandible and his skin washed cold at her touch. Traversing the flesh of his neck and dancing in icy prickles across his shoulders, the sensation crawled across his arms and set off a pilomotor reaction in its wake. Scutes adorning his body tingled as vestigial muscles beneath tensed and puckered the plated scales into tight knots. It was an involuntary reaction which once puffed dense, fleshy quills on Sangheili of lesser evolution in times of extreme arousal.

Daniel thrummed a soft purr. It was as much to articulate appreciation at Lucinda's touch as to calm the primal response which was as much physical as it was emotional. If necessary, this woman would never know the depth to which the simplest token of her presence stirred his desire as a man.

_She has been degraded enough_.

Lucinda traced raised scars along Daniel's jaw. Some were old, already scaled over and darkened to the muddy gray of his hide. Others were fresh marks dotted with new scales which had come together like the tiny mangled teeth of zippers as they worked in haste to interlock over the thin flesh covering wounds. Eyes once puddled and stained with hemorrhage were clear; their depths an unblemished shade of powdery yellow. The muscular ring around his jet irises were streaked with white and a color like the bright feathers of a wild canary.

His eyelids drooped farther and nostril slits flexed as he sighed.

A smile toyed at Lucinda's lips at the contentment in his face. She let the pads of her fingers travel his tattered hide, brushing over recently healed wounds. The trenches and ridges which ringed his neck were evidence he had been brutally garroted. Knots twisted across his collarbone like the lines of a many-tailed whip. Sunken pocks had replaced the swollen blisters which once dotted his bare torso. Lucinda flattened her hand against the right muscle of his chest and felt the soft, undulating vibration which matched the garbled noise of purring.

She knew he would never speak again, but everything a girl could want to hear was captured in that sound.

Gratitude.

Affection.

As he smiled down at her, Daniel peeped through cracked lids and ran gnarled fingers through her hair, careful not to disturb the strip of fabric which concealed her missing eye. He combed wayward curls from her face, letting the pad of his thumb brush her cheek.

It felt as if a torrent of butterflies was set loose in Lucinda's stomach. They sent little electric shockwaves to her fingers and toes and made her skin flush. Nervously, she broke eye contact and cuddled closer into the crook of his arm. Inexperienced youth tried to make sense of sudden, dreadful confusion in the wake of a feeling so foreign. Lucinda was overwhelmed with the curious and tumultuous emotions churning against the path of destruction already wrought in her heart and mind.

This Elite was capable of genuine compassion and consideration for her, yet was so blatantly unconcerned with his own comfort. She knew from his demeanor he had covered his nakedness for _her_ sake, not because he had cared one way or the other. Daniel had clearly figured out quickly she was embarrassed and uncomfortable with his nudity.

Then there was the detached and cavalier manner in which he had dispatched the derisory portion of his arm. While Lucinda's girlish naivety had wished it had not been necessary, there had been no need for Daniel to explain. Dry, brittle bone and blackened dying flesh had appeared increasingly painful and inflamed.

The amputation had been crudely effective; almost malicious and self-deprecating.

While the spectacle had left tears streaming down her face, and Daniel had tried to warn her off, Lucinda had refused to leave his side. She tore a length of fabric and helped him tie it tightly around his forearm below the elbow. Though she could barely bring herself to watch, peering through fingers with her hands clamped over her face, she wouldn't let him go through it alone. It took three heavy blows to crack the bone and sever the decaying muscle cleanly. Lucinda had flinched at each one.

When Daniel had finished cauterizing the bloody stump with the flat of the heated machete blade, Deléon had primly wrapped the raw flesh with strips of clean linen. Not once did he move to stop or correct her, though she knew she was miserably unskilled in how to properly dress a wound. In the end, Daniel had simply bowed his head gracefully and smiled at the neat bow she had tied to secure the bandage.

She was struck by a sudden wave of guilt and shame at the memory.

Lucinda felt like such a traitor. She had lived when others had died; she had been rescued by him when so many had been murdered by his kind; and now, the empathy she felt for the Elite had taken on a feeling which was more than the desire to care for him, though she didn't fully understand what it was. In all of his injuries Deléon saw a reflection of herself and felt the tug of an insight which seemed to escape definition like a puff of smoke.

Her spirit had always been tender to injured or abandoned creatures. She had always been sensitive to those she felt less fortunate than herself, though there had been things in her world she didn't understand or want.

Not yet a woman but no longer a child, Lucinda's young heart had been easily pricked by every stray puppy, kitten, and hatchling bird fallen from its nest. She was a girl who, in childlike sorrow, died a little inside at news reports of thousands of orphans in the colonies. In her own city she had volunteered at soup kitchens and as a grade-school mentor at her school. But what she felt for Daniel was more than wanting to be good to something or someone.

To her parent's dismay, she had always lacked the fundamental killer instinct her peers seemed to have formed themselves around or molded themselves into. An almost Puritan upbringing had been both sheltered and harsh. Lucinda had learned to shoot and hunt, construct explosives and fight, survive and evade all while a youthful hope wanted to believe there was another way. Everyone in the faction had been preparing for _The Day _her whole life.

Then, after all of that planning, _this _had happened.

From the recess of her mind, without warning or control, memories of what little innocence she had managed to hold onto being violently taken from her rose up. The brutal, painful images of degradation refused to be quelled. All of the things she didn't want to remember vied for attention and added to her sense of helplessness and uncertainty.

Lucinda's words crackled and faltered, and she clamped her mouth shut, gritting her teeth against an uprising of disappointment and sorrow. She pressed her face against Daniel's chest and, despite her best efforts to contain it, a whimpering sob escaped her lips.

With a confused mew, Daniel shifted, protectively wrapping his arms around her as she began to cry with fearsome vulnerability against what she had been holding inside.

The Sangheili sat up and collected her carefully in his arms. It was a gesture of comfort towards another as foreign to him as the emotions painfully twisting his hearts. Daniel rocked her, rumbling a hard, loud purr as he smoothed her hair and let her cry until the tears were exhausted to sniffs and hiccups. She had held out for a great deal longer than he had expected a girl so misused to be able. Yet, her reaction was sadness not rage.

As she curled in his lap and lay her head against his chest, Daniel let his jaws cradle her head as a mother would an infant. So strange he would feel this way toward her after all he had done to cause women to weep so bitterly, after all he had done to purge humans from the galaxy.

Deléon tipped her face to him and cupped his cheek, patting a soft, tear-soaked kiss against the underside of a misshapen lower mandible. Daniel gave a high-pitched grumble in his chest, shocked at the intimacy of the gesture and by the juvenile reaction it involuntarily set loose inside him. Shifting to look down into her face, he swept a soggy curl of dark hair from her cheek and Lucinda smiled at him with a trust and affection more pure than he had ever imagined existed.

Weakly returning the smile, Daniel gave the human girl a contented grunt and bunted his snout gently against her forehead.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

**Outside New Saint Etienne**

It was on the fourth afternoon of their freedom when Daniel espied movement from the legion ships. He was wandering meticulously through the nearby wooded area and had left Lucinda by the stream as she had prepared for her afternoon bath. This provided her with a modicum of privacy and gave him an occasion to work and stretch his healing muscles.

Stalking the surrounding forest was tranquil. Hunting provided the instinctual comfort of exercising his senses and reflexes while the result insured his nutritional needs were met. Patrols of the area also gave Daniel the opportunity to see to Lucinda's immediate safety.

Possessed of an advanced sensory system, and even in the condition he had found himself, Daniel was aware they were not alone in the forest. For this reason he had created and maintained a distinct territory of urinary markings and counter-markings. This was sociologically obsolete and primitive for an advanced species, but the chemical composition of liquid waste, discharged pheromones, and proteins was an extremely effective means of communicating dominance. It had also negated the necessity of wasting his returning strength on physically combating native predatory species.

The warmth of late afternoon sunlight fell across his scarred hide as Daniel stepped from a wooded path into a small natural clearing. Tall dry-grass tickled his heels as he crossed the opening and before him a few hopping insects bounded from brown stalks before taking flight. The Sangheili cast a casual glance skyward and paused mid-step. Above, through the break in the canopy, Daniel watched as dropships passed one another's paths in the wedge of visible sky.

He remained motionless until both crafts had disappeared from sight behind the trees. With a snort, Daniel crossed the opening at a jog and plummeted back into forest on the other side. Picking up an ever increasing pace, he made his way through flora and fauna until trees fell away and the land opened up to a range of earth blanketed with windswept grasses and tall flowering weeds.

With a limited view to the horizon, he could see dropships ascending to and descending from warships in the distance. As the procession of troop carriers moved to a battlecruiser and passed to ships beyond his vision, Daniel could see a few larger legion vessels dropping from high outer orbits into the atmosphere.

Crossing the range at a sprint, the Sangheili made for the rocky incline of the mountain's crest and buttes. He hit the slope with determined ferocity, bare feet tramping the ground and hooved toes carving divots, slinging dirt and pebbles in their wake. Sand and rock were overtaken by tangles of underbrush which eventually yielded to thickets of hearty, thorn covered shrubs emerging from great cracks in slabs of stone. Trees pushed up from the seams of massive rocks, their bark-covered roots winding across the ground and anchoring the tall trunks as limbs reached and vied with their neighbors for the suns.

Daniel could feel a delightful ache building in the anterior muscles of his legs as his feet tore at the ground, pushing him up the increasing grade. Until now, his movements had been carefully reserved and he found this exertion caused his body to protest with delightful pain. He drew a deep breath, reveling in the feeling of his mounting pulse as he pushed himself harder against the increasingly difficult terrain.

He climbed over rocks and felled tree trunks, toes finding purchase and clawless fingers scrambling for hold. Lungs burned and hearts picked up to an inordinate pace. Still, he rushed on, leaping a thicket of climbing shrubbery and crashing down on the other side inelegantly. His intrusion rousted a napping clutch of mourning hens sending them scattering in all directions from a thorn bush. The fowl cried noisily and Daniel gave them a derisive hiss as he pushed himself up and threw himself headlong. Tearing forward under the momentum, the large muscles of his legs burned in complaint.

Vegetation thinned as Daniel neared his objective. The ground began to morph from large rocks and patches of plant-bearing peat to sand and bare pillars of stone. As he hauled himself to the crest, a trickle of sweat slid between exposed shoulder blades, the perspiration traveling the trenches of scars to seep into the fabric wound at his waist.

Drawing heavy breaths, hearts sending blood slamming through his veins, Daniel stood looking across a flattened peak of the mountainside. The elevation and a view unobstructed by trees and hills allowed him to make further inspection of the sky as he stepped across the summit. A cool breeze caressed his skin and the flesh hummed. Rivulets of sweat wound across his face and droplets fell from the underside of his mandibles. Rocks and pebbles popped beneath his feet as Daniel slowly stepped near a ledge. Below, rocks and sheets of stone tumbled down a collapsed butte face dotted with crooked trees clinging to the near vertical plane. The plants reached at contorted angles toward the sky.

From his perch, Daniel looked out from the edge of their mountain sanctuary. Keen eyes scanned the panorama, taking in hundreds of details at once. There was a juncture far below where their stream eventually joined an ever enlarging natural watercourse. Smaller canals converged into a snaking river as it cut across flats of grass and split to bisect forests before rejoining the main tributary and disappearing between colorful mountain ranges in the distance. Before him stretched thousands of the planet's rolling topographical miles all the way to a gently curved horizon.

_Vengeant Shepherd_ hung in the sky to the east while all manner of assault carriers and battlecruisers could be seen waiting patiently in lower stationary orbit as dropships went about in disorganized but obvious final troop retrieval. Destroyers and larger legion ships could be seen assuming a glassing formation relative to the massive CSO-class supercarrier. In a muted veil, the first pinks and oranges of evening threatened a glorious sunset.

Daniel let himself smile briefly.

It appeared the Jiralhanae had finally found the cohesion to begin movement and had commenced final regression. It had taken less time than Daniel had surmised for them to sort out who would lead in the wake of Izakkus' death. Days past had undoubtedly been full of much bloodshed and internal squabbling. However, it appeared the foul beasts had finally sorted out their hierarchy and laid functional claim to the Sangheili legion.

All Daniel had accomplished in his previous life was edging toward a spectacular close.

He delayed for a few moments before turning from the sight. He had seen all he needed and began to retrace his steps down the slope, determination in every hurried stride. He would witness what was to come: as painful as it would be to watch the last of his life die, it was the least he deserved for her sake. Lucinda had suffered unduly because of his arrogant pride. Her people had been slaughtered and she had been molested by the beasts his conceit and arrogance had brought here. Though revenge for many of the wrongs against his men had been taken against his own flesh, he had no measure of recompense to offer Lucinda which she seemed inclined to accept. As she was unwilling to see his death, this thing he had set in motion for the sake of his pride was all that remained and he would lay it at her feet.

* * *

Amy sat in the darkening glow of sunset as evening draped the complex in continuous shadow. From her seat at the base of the main building's rear steps, Starr looked out across the new structures which were once to become Saint Vincent's Orphanage.

The old farmhouse was situated at the center of what would have been the original colonial claim. Built on the rise of a hill, inhabitants of old once had an unobstructed view of their vineyards for miles around.

Now, arranged neatly behind the farmhouse, twelve rectangular buildings of varying sizes were situated in an elongated horse-shoe. Constructed of cinderblock and clapboard, only half had been complete. Most boasted recent exterior paint while some had windows covered in visquien. A small metal building sat at the epicenter of what was intended to someday be a courtyard, an exterior placard announcing it had been the office of the site foreman. Portable toilet facilities stood out in their neon blue containers some distance away and interspersed everywhere were collections of mobile storage buildings housing tools and dry-wrapped industrial building supplies.

In the drawing dusk, evacuees of all descriptions could be seen milling about the complex. Colonists, soldiers, a few bikers and nuns, and numerous Elites were making preparations for the coming night. The two four story dormitories had thankfully been completed and furnished, and with a bit of rearranging had been divided and subdivided and made to accommodate the needs of those now inhabiting their spaces. As some residents prepared to bed down, others worked to complete tasks before dark set in, while still more made their way to designated pick-up and meeting points for shifts on assigned patrols.

Many of the routines established on Fort Champlain had gone into effect absent centralized direction. Supplies were evaluated; soldiers and Elites worked out patrol routes and rotating shift schedules; civilians established job details of laundry, food preparations, caring for the wounded, and seeing to the children.

Amy had worked with the nuns and a group of able bodies on evaluating and rerouting plumbing. Per code, the complex was designed to be hooked up to the city water, but per emergency management provisions, it had also been designed to draw drinking water from local cisterns and watercourses with the use of manual hydraulic ram pumps and hydrogen fuelled electric generators.

It had taken just over a full day to get the system of pipes capped and switched from the defunct city system. Generators which had been in storage and electrically dormant when the attack began had allowed them to have almost immediate running water.

Waste was diverted from city sewage routs to a network of septic reservoirs and, as a testament to the neighboring monastery's determination to be self-sufficient, was fed into a series of local anaerobic digestion gasifiers. They could manufacture, in a manner of speaking, their own fuels, including methane, which made for one really happy Grunt.

As stars began to emerge along the gray horizon, Amy watched as three children dashed giggling from a line of buildings and across the wide central courtyard. They scrambled to hide against the opposing side of the foreman's trailer, a few peeping from around a corner. Ranging from eight to twelve, the children were dirty from a good day's play and dressed in clothing once donated to the orphanage.

Amy watched the kids vie for a place to spy their pursuer, then hushed laughter erupted into playful squeals as Eeth came prowling from between the farthest two buildings on the opposing line. The Stealth Minor made a show of sniffing the air before giving half-hearted chase to the gaggle of children who ran with silly laughter and arms flailing dramatically toward the safety of buildings to the north.

_An Elite once sent to kill humans is now pretending to chaise the children of his former enemy while they are pretending to be afraid…_

Leaning back against a porch-rail, Amy tipped her face skyward and smiled ironically at the thought. The sunset behind threw colorful streaks across the heavens backlighting the dark shapes of Covenant ships. Over the course of the afternoon, dropships had been seen moving. While most appeared as motes to human vision, apparitions which could only be seen in glimpses which disappeared when chased with the eye, a few passed close enough in the distance to take on somewhat discernible shapes. Larger warships had drooped from the fringe of space while smaller craft took on the chore of receiving evacuated Brutes and other Covenant members who had turned on the Elites.

What would have caused panic days ago was now garnering little interest, thanks to Yipip and Naaco.

Amy huffed a laugh.

Had _that_ ever been a fiasco.

Kote and the Elites were clearly pissed to have found the two of them. There had been yelling and snarling and at one point it looked like things were about to devolve into physical violence. Amy had shoved her way into the middle and Penny had waddled over to the loud happenings and the two women had planted themselves between a group of angry Elite soldiers and what turned out to be a Covenant holy man of some description and a castrated Sangheili slave.

The former was hated because of what was seen as his compliancy in the betrayal and the latter because he was viewed as willfully wayward property. Both claimed to have been sent from the flagship by the Legion Master and had attempted to use a few Covenant military objects as proof. Kote had been determined to have none of it. Then Yipip had recounted a story of the two helping to sabotage the capitol ship's ventral system, and how the Legion Master had given them the equipment and told them to leave and find the others. 'Hakkamr had appeared close to being convinced at that…right up until Yipip claimed their Legion Master had returned to Naaco his birth-name. When the cultural back-reference was explained Penny begged for calm and turned to Amy in a quiet plea for help.

"This 'Berovai," Starr had said, "sounds like a shrewd man. Sadistic, but shrewd. So, what if what they say is the truth?" The Elite warriors looked as if they hadn't considered that, "Would any of you dishonor your Legion Master's orders with your cultural vengeance? What purpose does that serve now anyway?" The Elites had glared at her but still managed to look thoroughly chastened. She had turned to help Penny usher the two smaller aliens toward the main house when she called back over her shoulder absently, "And, what if he isn't dead, do any of you really want that kind of wrath on your heads?"

That had put an end to it. The Elites were not at all comfortable with _that_ idea and it convinced them to leave the Grunt and the slave alone, at least for the time being.

Amy returned her gaze to the dark and starry horizon across the courtyard as she heard the rear farmhouse door open and close. The porch creaked as Kote wandered out. The Stealth Major stood in silence for a while then settled on the deck and stretched his long legs down the steps, his armored feet just touching the ground.

She had known by the cadence of the Elite's footsteps he wasn't 'Korid, but the time of day had played an ugly trick on her mind for just long enough for bitter reality to grab hold of her again.

Starr had been successful for days now at keeping a particular fear on lockdown; not letting herself acknowledge what it did to her to hear a lookout call when vehicles were on approach from the preemptive roadway checkpoint. God forbid she admit she lingered at the main house whenever possible and assisted in processing new arrivals because she hoped to see Torsch among those coming in.

With the influx of Elites and refugees which began arriving on the second day, it hadn't been an unreasonable thought. It turned out, one of the devices which Naaco and Yipip had given Major 'Hakkamr was the Legion Master's mapping transmitter. Unlike those provided to the ground troops, the highest ranking Elite's map of the planet was thorough on a decisive scale, designed to give the man full information on troop locations and the ability to communicate coordinates to select files or the legion as a whole. Kote had sent an abbreviated transmission of coordinates to every map still functioning in a reasonable area, effectively calling in nearby Elite troops. The remainder across the planet were appraised of the situation as it was known and instructed to aid the humans.

'Hakkamr hadn't been concerned the Brutes would decipher the message. According to him, the transmission was triple encrypted by unsanctioned protocol in a specialized amalgamation of three ancient Sangheili dialects. Brutes in possession of any retrieved devices would not be able to decipher the message; and the Grunts and Jackals sympathetic to their cause would be of no linguistic help.

A breeze kicked up and washed the smell of distant grape blossoms over Amy and Kote as they sat looking out across the complex and the rolling vineyards beyond.

"He isn't coming, is he?" she managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper.

Emotional shutdown had been largely precipitated by an internal moral compass which said it wasn't right for her to be so devastated at the thought. Whatever Amy felt at realizing Torsch wasn't among those coming in had to be a million times worse for Penny. The rest of those around her had lost mothers and father, sons and daughters, close extended family and lifelong friends. The Elites had all lost someone they had known for years in the legion. Not to mention the fact that if the Legion Master had managed to do what Yipip and Naaco claimed, they would be forever stranded here while their kind waged a war with the Covenant without them. Even as years of therapy told her it wasn't fair to compare her pain to the pain of others, Starr didn't feel it right to hurt the way, and for what she did.

But, she was beyond exhausted, mentally and physically. Days of work with little time to rest or sleep had her feeling wrung out. The flow of arriving evacuees, survivors, and their alien counterparts had increased their numbers by a multiple of almost five. Arranging a system of recordkeeping, task delegation, and resource management had been no small feat in that short amount of time.

Even after a shower, a change of clothes, and a decent meal, the continued cycle of emotional upheaval at arriving groups and the subsequent series of letdowns had managed to wear completely thin Starr's resolve to remain dethatched.

She could remember the moment it all came completely unraveled.

It had happened earlier that evening. She had stood in the little bathroom on the top level of the farmhouse getting dressed and as she had pulled on a pair of pants the Covenant bandage applied to her side weeks ago finally decided it was done doing its thing and came off in a semi-flexible, not-quite-scab-like sheet.

Amy had stood looking down at the half-shriveled covering laying on the floor for a few beats, letting her hands travel to an oblong scar which curved across the top of her hip. The mark flagged up her lower ribs, as wide as her hand and twice the length in total. Most of the new tissue was a healthy, pale pink while a knot of heavy scarring sat just low of center across the curve of her hip. Where the bandage had worked diligently to regenerate flesh in the void of a third degree burn the scar was thick, tough, and stood in jagged relief. It was about the size of her palm and webbed with fractured lines of dark red. Random spots were blanched white leaving everything which had required complete synthesis a mottled patchwork.

_If Torsch hadn't put that bandage there she probably would have died of infection or dehydration due to edema…and now…_

"You make reference to Stealth Major 'Korid?" Kote asked, breaking the silence.

Amy nodded, unable to speak because of the immense ache set off in her chest. She felt so ridiculous that such a mundane thing would have been the one to make her feel this way. _Was she really getting upset over a bandage?_

Her nose burned and she clenched teeth in an effort to hold back the tears which suddenly threatened. It was a momentary panic, as if her emotions had suddenly been thrown into a lurch.

_Damnit_, she cursed to herself.

'Hakkamr was silent for a few moments, his eyes darting across her as his brain tried to force the emotional cues he was inferring to make some kind of contextual sense.

Amy was…crude and vulgar by the standards of his culture, even for hardened warriors. She was a woman who seemed completely comfortable speaking whatever was on her mind, in whatever words happened to come out of her mouth. She had no issue challenging males on issues not properly within the realm of female concern; she openly dismissed the offensive mishaps of others, acting as though the personal interactions between himself and Penny, and the resulting compromising situations she had caught them in, were no transgression of social nicety. It had been distinctly to his advantage Amy was unconcerned with such things, yet her cavalier manner was boorish. She conducted herself, rudely, as an alpha female, one who judged herself capable of being on equal footing with men.

Though his Penny was capable of being head-strong, she did not in any way extend her assertions beyond the sphere of a woman's right and she approached males with proper respect.

'Hakkamr sighed. It was not fair to make such a comparison.

He dared not imagine how a woman such as Amy would infuriate a man as culturally and religiously zealous as Torsch.

Kote twisted his mandibles and hung his head in resignation, _Of course_.

The Sangheili straightened and spoke against Amy's fears into the darkness, "If there is anyone who can make it through this, it is Major 'Korid," he rumbled.

'Hakkamr gave a single, sharp nod to himself in affirmation of the complete truth of his statement.

There was nothing more which should have needed to be said on the subject. Kote certainly had no concerns, and his status as a warrior and a file-mate of 'Korid's should have lent a degree of credence to the statement. Still, when Amy sniffed and 'Hakkamr saw her reach to wipe a palm along a cheek as a tear trailed form her eye he felt highly taken aback.

_Oh…gods._

"You have doubt," it was not really a question, more of a surprised statement.

Amy shrugged even as she fought to swipe the tear from her other cheek and ground the heels of her palms against her eyes, "It's been three days since we got here," she choked, "and the accounts from those coming in don't really seem…"

Kote uncharacteristically dismissed her argument, interrupting with a snort. His previous unfavorable judgment of her aside, the Sangheili recognized Amy was not attempting to argue with him, she was simply frightened and did not understand what he was trying to convey.

"Those are minor inconveniences for a man like 'Korid."

A wry smile pulled at Amy's mouth as a few of Torsch's words played through her head, _'My mother…said I was too obstinate to die.'_

"Nothing like being within the kill radius of a plasma grenade," Starr said sarcastically, smiling to herself for the briefest of moments.

Kote slowly swiveled his face in her direction, a sharply raised brow ridge highlighting the almost incredulous expression on his face, "He told you about that?"

Starr nodded, kicking at a dirt clod with a heel as she sniffed, "Yeah."

"Is that…_all_ he told you?" the Elite prodded, aghast.

"Well," Amy rubbed at her nose and turned to look at him, "and that he was burned pretty badly and spent a month at home recuperating, but yeah."

Kote sighed and turned his face to the stars appearing overhead, muttering an eloquent string of Sangheili curses in petition to the sky.

In many ways Torsch 'Korid was humble to the point of fault. His military service and the distinction thereof was a topic he avoided even among his peers, and only grudgingly discussed with superiors when queried. Why was it then surprising the man would manipulate and deliberately omit key details when speaking of it to a female?

_No, the surprise was that he would mention it to a woman at all…_

'Hakkamr made a barking sound in his throat as he shook his head, "I was present when it happened." His words were terse, he knew very well he was about to commit a social taboo in discussing the personal details of another man's life…details 'Korid seemed to wish to diminish by his own account. _Damn him_, "He was severely burned," Kote rumbled, "I would say _fatally _but..." he huffed, "His injuries were primarily those which completely obliterated the dermal layer…singed even the muscle in some places. Add to that compound fractures and crushed bones, Ancestors only know what kind of internal damage he sustained."

"Oh," Amy said distantly, turning back to look out across the courtyard, "shit."

"Indeed," the Sangheili mused, "and he was not simply…" he ground his mandibles, struggling for words, "He put himself into the kill radius of that damned grenade," Kote snarled, "Charged into it. It…he…" 'Hakkamr stammered in frustration, "That grenade was not intended for him," he said angrily, "and because the damned fool not only managed not to die but returned to full service, Torsch 'Korid is the only member of the Covenant military still living to have been awarded the Star of Apotheos," Kote turned to her in exasperation, "He truly did not tell you any of this?"

He looked at her in open disbelief, brow ridges drawn together in consternation.

"No," Amy whispered, "he didn't."

Kote groaned, snapping his jaws, _What in the darkest pit of hells was wrong with that man?_

Amy drew a deep breath, letting it out with slowness to quell her churning insides.

"Who was the grenade meant for?" she asked, turning back to see 'Hakkamr clenching his mandibles.

He met her gaze and said evenly, "Sicera 'Berovai."

Amy dropped her gaze and stared at the worn ground between her feet.

"When the Covenant commissioned this legion, 'Berovai was promoted to Legion Master. As is customary, he was allowed to requisition troops from all dissolved or units awaiting dissolution. The unit to which 'Korid and I were assigned…there were not many of us left after…" he sighed and ground his teeth, "'Berovai selected 'Korid and 'Korid requested my transfer into Stealth Operations as well," Kote muttered, "I owe him my career."

They sat without further exchange in the growing dark. Various insects began their raucous choruses; night birds danced across the sky in pursuit of mates or evening meals; laughter and bits of conversation filtered out from the dormitories. Amy felt her heart breaking for a different reason.

_Goddamnit_, she cursed to herself, _Why did Torsch have to be that kind of person: that kind of soldier? Where in the hell is he? No, better yet, why in the hell had she let him get close, at all; let alone close enough to kiss her or screw with her emotions?_

This was all her own damn fault. She hadn't kissed anyone years. Hell, she hadn't let a man get close enough to accomplish the task since Allan. Now that she had, 'Korid probably wasn't…

_Damn it, Amy, this is why letting anyone get close is not safe. People hurt you and let you down. Even if they don't mean to, even if they're good people…they always leave and never come back._

Amy stood before she could let herself go down that road. It was too much to face again.

_Not now, not here._

She brushed the seat of her pants before wiping her palms against one another. Looking across the courtyard, the black silhouette of the foreman's building carved a rectangular wedge out of her starry view of the horizon. It was still early for Ambrosia II. The planet had a twenty-eight hour cycle and Amy felt like she had experienced every one of them, each day, for the last four days.

As she turned to make her way up the steps, a blue-white haze flared across the sky, tendrils of electricity weakening as they jumped from one Covenant ship to the next bathing the ground in near daytime brightness.

A sound like distant thunder rocketed across the sky as Amy backed down the steps and away from the porch. Kote stood and joined her as a murmur rose from across the complex. Residents emerged from buildings and pointed to the eastern sky; windows were pushed open and curious people looked out, some calling back for others to come see.

* * *

Lucinda slipped from Daniel's arms, her bare feet touching warm rock as she turned to look out across hundreds of miles of terrain blanketed in the early night.

Daniel had returned to their camp later than usual that evening, a familiar determination in his every movement. Though she had lay on the fur waiting, her collected belongings packed and ready for the nightly retreat from the stream into the wood line, the Elite had instead gathered her up, knapsack, fur and all, before beginning in the opposite of the usual direction at a labored run.

She hadn't bothered asking him where they were going. As he wound through the forest on a well-traveled path, Lucinda had draped her arms across his shoulders and rested her head in the crook of his neck. The dark trail had opened to a patch of tall grass cast silver in the moonlight and Daniel had stalked across it, shifting her in his embrace as he stomped forward through more forest and out into an open flat. Without pause, he carried her across the wide, sparse plane and began awkwardly climbing a rocky incline.

By the time they made the summit, stars winked back by the millions and a smoky slash of the galaxy cut across the blue-black sky. A crescent and a newly waning moon hung behind them casting their blue light across the countryside. Hundreds of Covenant vessels appeared arrayed in the distance, their outlines in shades of purple and bright blue.

"It's...it's beautiful," Lucinda said, braving to lean nearer the edge as she held onto Daniel's hand.

The Sangheili smiled, jagged fangs peeking from his lips as he watched her inspecting every sight she could see.

_Yes, it is… _

When he had returned to the stream to retrieve her, he had not had time to notice the garment in which she had clothed herself, and as he looked at her now in the moonlight, Daniel felt as if his hearts had stopped beating.

The dress was overly large for her slight frame, but Lucinda had wound dark strips of soft cloth around her middle, cinched in at her tiny waist and coiling up her body to hold the bodice in place. Tiny sparkles of worn beadwork shown through the cording against a satin finish to catch the light as she moved. The long skirt fell to her feet and brushed the ground, swaying gently, accentuating the smallest of movement. With her back to him as she peered out from the ledge, her dark hair fell in a thick braid that hung nearly to the flare of her hips. Lucinda's delicate shoulders and arms were nakedly exposed to his view.

She was the single most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

With his immediate biological needs met, the desire Daniel felt welling within himself at the sight of her was purely physiological. Once a Legion Master, a Kaidon, a man with more power in all aspects of his life than most would achieve in but one; a man whose decisions had changed the tides of entire battles time and again, a man who held responsibility for continuing to lead an entire bloodline from disgrace; a man with an eager Mistress and a harem full of prolific women at his deposal…and he had not coveted any of it with the intensity he found himself yearning simply to be near her.

As much as he could not stand to let himself think of Lucinda that way, knowing what had been done to her...looking at her in that moment he could not help but recognize he was still just a man.

_Damnit_.

Drawing a deep, calming breath, Daniel cast the cloak onto the ground and lowered himself to its soft fur exterior, smoothing it with the stump of his arm before pulling her back and wrapping her in an embrace. Lucinda settled readily into his lap, her back against his chest as she pulled the long braid of her hair across a shoulder and ran her fingers idly along its ridges. The naked flesh of her upper back and shoulders was pressed lightly against the uncovered skin of his lower chest and Daniel suddenly felt as if he could not breathe.

"Which ship was yours?" she asked quietly.

The simplicity of the question brought him out of the moment of pure, physical longing which had threatened his sanity.

_All of them, _he thought with a silent chuckle.

Dipping his snout to her bare shoulder, the Sangheili indulged in the scent of her before gesturing toward _Vengeant Shepherd _with his mangled hand.

"The big ship?" Lucinda chirped, a hint of excitement spilling into her voice.

_Oh, merciful Ancestors…_Daniel silently groaned, _Could she possibly be more delightfully_ naive_? _

He nodded before tucking his muzzle into the crook of her neck.

In his mind, the two of them sat like that for what felt a blissful eternity.

Then, he felt her move. The tendons of her neck and shoulder flexed against his face as she slowly turned, pausing when her cheek came to rest against his.

"_Daniel_?" His name was said in a frightened whisper.

He pulled her closer, nuzzling her neck before tipping his face to see her questioning expression torn between him and the night's sky. Following her gaze, Daniel saw the dark bulk of _Vengeant Shepherd, _running lights dimming as blue pools of plasma collected in lines and traveled channels toward the ventral projector.

He smiled, baring his fangs as he held her tightly.

Lucinda found herself pressing back into him, her heart thundering in her chest as panic began to take hold.

She squirmed, "Daniel, what...what's happening?" her words were a terrified squeak as small hands grabbed hold of his forearms, nails biting into the thin flesh of scars.

He held her, even as her breath caught in unknowing fear.

_Vengeant__ Shepherd's _ventral ring lighted with glowing plasma, the superheated ionized hydrogen pooling and distending awkwardly forth in a pregnant bubble from the ships belly. Undermined electromagnetic field generators failed to orient the channel into a cylindrical beam. Within moments, the plasma baloon's suspension field expanded to fill the space alotted for the ship's ventral shield flux. As the bubble expanded, opposing electric fields compressed and dipole ossilation caused the ship's shields to waver and break out in a hexagonal pattern of tension strain. Working to compensate for the perceived shield compromise, the flux closed, swallowing the failed beam. Relative permittivity of the plasma containment field failed, hydron was sent it in a wave over the ship's hull, and released plasma overloaded the ventral projector backwashing through the opening.

Plasma tore through the ship's interior and parts of the airframe gave way, sending exoskelital plates ejecting from the surface near the blast. Field generator systems worked to compensate and opposing energy offloaded their charges into one another. Shields collapsed releaving the reactive static charge, sending bolts of lightening streaking across the sky to neighboring ships.

The disturbed atmosphere growled its complaint and the chain reaction lit the surface below. An angry, rolling wave of deep tonal sounds built to assault Daniel's ears.

For the Sangheili, it was momentarily like being inside of a drum.

Lucinda stilled against him, hands releasing his arms as she touched her fingers to her parted lips is silent awe.

Control systems across the affected ships failed and reaction drives struggled to maintain rigid motions. While damaged vessels drifted haphazardly in the sky, orbital thrusters struggling with schynchrinous translatuon. Those not caught in the reaction found themselves unbound from the capitol ship's slipstream control. In a frenzy, ruptures split the sky all over the planet and those still able escaped into the void.

Plasma and gasses sputtered from the seams of remaining compromised ships in colorful ribbons as various chemicals reacted instantaneously with thermospheric radiation. Insufficient mass, speed, temperature, and density prevented an atmospheric nuclear reaction. Various uncharged elements ionized in fractional seconds under ultraviolet bombardment then degraded just as quickly as particles separated and the spilled molecular clouds dissolved into the upper atmosphere.

Oxygen fluoresced under radiation to ozone and degraded back through its life-cycle in flashes of red. Methane storage tanks and lines ruptured, setting off multiple-phase combustion reactions as the chemical struggled unsuccessfully to combine with degraded oxygen, giving off puffs of green and blue as the gasses defused. Deprived of usable oxygen, explosions at thermospheric elevation could not maintain combustion and died out with barely time for the eye to register their presence. Hydron was released in disorganized fits and bursts as catastrophic systems failure induced spontaneous weapons' fire under mechanical overload. Seals ruptured and superheated plasma stored near ionization coils spilled out into the atmosphere. Without the focus and force of electromagnetic tunneling, the plasma could not maintain organized shape and lacked a field to draw it toward the surface. Ionized hydrogen simply escaped to diffuse in a colorful display. Too light to fall through the thermosphere, and exposed to uv radiation, hydron degraded rapidly like a rainbow hued puff of smoke. Each molecule ejected their ionizing electron, converted back to simple hydrogen, and drifted harmlessly through the remainder of the atmosphere and into the vacuum of space.

Flagging colors of purple and blue-green were sent across the sky in a lingering auroral display which wavered and fanned. The dancing ribbons were caught between pressure bursts as ships struggled to maintain magnetic field repulsion. Reactions phased out, elements reduced to their most stable forms, and solar winds seized the gasses sweeping them away.

The thermosphere reclaimed its balance and the ever fading show of light became a backdrop. Without the ability to stave off gravity, what remained of the legion slowly began to sink. Ships were sent listing and turning, groaning as their bodies swept toward the surface gracefully in ever sharpening arcs.

Debris which were cast off seemed to glitter as their surfaces twisted in various states of free-fall. Internal breakdowns lit darkened vessels from within in chaotic flashes of purple as the warships dropped ever further toward the surface.

Lucinda turned in Daniel's arms, searching his shadowed face. The reflective disks of his eyes studied her in return, seeking some measure of understanding.

"You did this," she whispered, reaching to brush her fingers across his cheek.

He slowly nodded, the corners of his crooked mandibles turning up into a smile.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

**Outside New Saint Etienne**

Sunrise broke in the west through a barrier of angry clouds. A low-lying, buoyant plume of gray-brown and silver-black was set alight and day trickled in through an ashen filter. Lucinda lay curled on her side, cheek nestled in the crook of her elbow as she watched a monstrous collection of convective clouds gently roll across the sky. Miles away, fields of grass and patches of dense woodland sent up a fine veil of smoke as they smoldered against the dawn. Dark pillars twisted and curled in thin billows, their columns ascending from the glow of chemical fires still raging inside Covenant ships laid down in the distance. Blues and whites and muted purple-pinks were all that remained of the legion which had plunged to the surface the night before.

An acoustic growl of thunder began from afar off and intensified as the sound rolled near.

The rumble echoed, providing its own accompaniment as varying atmospheric translations reverberated against the expanding shock wave in succession. Lucinda felt the ground beneath her shudder as the noise peeled overhead and crawled through the sky beyond.

Bright tendrils of lightning reached for the ground near the horizon and as the flash receded, multiple branching off-shoots grasped the clouds, dancing along in a chain reaction on the underside of the angered formation in hues of white and blue. Deléon yawned and slowly wriggled. Mindful of her still painful hip, she stretched so as not to inadvertently escape her warm cocoon and spill out into the cool and wet morning air.

Behind her, Daniel grumbled sleepily in complaint against being woken up. He was cuddled against her back, the arm around her middle attempting to pull her more tightly to his chest. She could feel him feebly shaking his head against her neck in unspoken protest, which he punctuated with a cranky grunt.

Squirming carefully in his embrace, the softness of the fur bundled around her brushing her bare arms and shoulders, Lucinda rolled over to see him still slowly wagging his snout, eyes squeezed shut. The subdued light of morning caught against the many angles of his face. Creased scars dimpled, furrowing into dark lines. Raised blemishes puckered and tugged against thin flesh mottled with shiny new scales.

Prompted by the visual reminder, her mind brought forward disjointed memories of his injuries. Semi-translucent snippets of living hell bit down on the present and a sympathetic visceral response coiled her insides. Lucinda wriggled her arm from between them, suddenly needing to reassure herself the healed scars were real. As her fingertips brushed against his hide she could feel scales pluck at her skin as they flared against knotted marks and were ill-formed over misshapen, boney protrusions. Following a wandering path across his face, she let her fingers wander down a gnarled upper mandible.

Daniel purred in response and Lucinda could feel the rhythmic trill through his chest against her own clear down to her stomach. She laughed softly as the flood of sudden emotion receded and he lazily opened his eyes. Clear, bright-yellow orbs full of affection seemed to look directly into her. Warmth suddenly engulfed her cheeks and Lucinda felt her heart thump an extra beat. Fine tingles of excitement were sent down her neck and shoulders, tickling across her chest and into her stomach, reaching to her fingertips and toes. She didn't understand what she was seeing in his eyes or why her body was having this terrifying reaction to it.

Before she could turn away in self-consciousness, Daniel touched his muzzle gently to her forehead. The scent of him filled her senses. There was the powdery trace of lavender soap opposing the pungent, oily smell of his skin. He was warm and safe and…

She felt the pliable scales of his lips graze her brow, nuzzling against her nose as he softly kissed down her face. The moment of contented reassurance quickly turned to frightening bewilderment. A rush of anxiety made the air in her lungs feel as thick as lead and a sharp pain stole across her hip as she instinctively tensed.

Part of her recognized what he wanted.

Part of her wanted it, too.

Confusion devolved into shame as nightmarish memories crisscrossed her perception. She began to question her own innocence and in the back of her mind her voice made humiliating, vile accusations: _maybe she had deserved what had happened to her…maybe she had wanted it then, too_. Lucinda clamped her eye shut against the rush of guilt and self-imposed indignity and whimpered as she felt his lips skimmed hers.

Daniel paused, not proceeding but not pulling away. Her body was drawn taut in his embrace and the scent which came off of her had changed from delightful, nervous excitement to abject terror. The Sangheili lifted his gaze to see her pained face. For the first time in his life that look of female knowing and dread caused him to feel ill rather than aroused. Protective impulses overrode and hotly shamed any other urges; and what remained of his manhood withered at the sight before him. Daniel tipped his face, running his hand up her back and pulling her head against his neck.

Lucinda cried. Quietly at first, then with an intensity which wracked her small body. As he held her and tried to purr in comfort, Daniel felt utterly ashamed of himself: of everything he was and everything he had been. His disgrace only mounted when she calmed. Her words were muffled against his neck and distorted from her tears but she was most assuredly apologizing, as if _she _had done something wrong.

Daniel shook his head as he continued to hold her, mortified that such a simple, incomplete expression would cause this much upset. It only confirmed what his hearts did not want to acknowledge: _she did not belong with him_.

Thunder grumbled from off in the distance and slowly reverberated across the clouds. Daniel looked out from the plateau to see lightening dance along the sky as he choked back the misery the thought of her absence caused. The yawning chasm of loneliness seemed unbearable having known what it was to care so much for someone, and have their affection in return.

_How appropriate a son of Berov would discover such a thing far too late. _

With a sigh, Daniel pressed his face into her hair, breathing in her delicate female scent as she squeezed him tightly in return; but the sky growled its discontent again, demanding he heed its warning.

* * *

It stormed for days. Laden clouds had manifest in the wake of electrical and molecular upheaval, fed by the smoke of numerous fires. For hours the boiling heavens had sent impressive displays across the sky before breaking to cry their grief in torrential sheets.

There had been no stars the nights after the ships sank, only a churning atmospheric cauldron of blacks and grays. Even when the sky had spent the worst of its aggrieved energy, a heavy blanket of thick clouds draped across the heavens leaving the day a darkened gloom and the night that of pitch.

Torsch did not have words. He could scarcely form a thought to imagine it: the great Legion of Recompense had fallen. It had been an incredible thing to witness the spectacular vision.

Unspeakable in beauty.

Horridly captivating.

Torsch shifted his hind-end against the small forward seat of the Warthog and reached to prop his wrist over the forward pillar. As he tried to stretch his aching shoulder, light splatters of rain came down and small droplets intermittently pelted his bare face. Tires from the ragged truck ahead sloshed through mud collecting in ruts in the roadway, throwing flecks against the hood and windshield directly before him.

He stared ahead with blank eyes, the fall of the legion playing over and over in his mind on an unending loop. In essence, the world he had known had come crashing down to reopen and toss him headlong into that yawning pit of nothingness inside. The night had been set aglow with distant fires like a hundred sunsets, and more than any other moment in the days before, he had deeply, desperately missed Amy.

He was not a man well suited to deal with change. His mind had always railed against it with reckless anger and violent frustration, but as he had watched warships dip beyond the horizon and felt the earth tremble beneath his feet as shockwaves rolled and collided; as everything he understood ended around him, he felt nothing. Not sadness. Not impotence. Not disappointment. Just, _nothing_.

The complete emotional abyss made no sense, while part of him knew Amy was the reason it _did_.

Gods, how he had longed to be able to just _talk_ to her.

For once in his life conversations with a woman had not been a needlessly elaborate courtship pursuit. Amy had spent time with him because she _wanted_ to. She listened to him because she was actually interested in the content of what he had to say. That was not something he understood or had ever experienced; and as soon as his wounded pride had gotten out of the way and he had been able to wrap his brain around the idea she meant no ill, Torsch had not had to fear being judged unworthy and desired simply because of some commendation on his record.

Amy did not know about the Star of Apotheos; it meant absolutely _nothing_ to her.

He did not have to fear being a means to an end and it _did not_ matter to him she was human.

He had very much learned to like how easily he could get her to snap at him, and the look on her face when he snapped back.

Though he had not had time to contemplate such things, he missed the sound of her voice and the way she smelled.

A strong survival instinct and a lifetime of training had taken over in the beginning and Torsch could not remember the last time he had slept, or eaten a sufficient meal. Even Sangheili had their limits. Days and nights on rotations of security watch; the ever present threat of Brutes left behind to wander about like wild, rabid, starving dogs; stories of crazed bands of humans attacking and eating their own; his mind would simply not allow him to rest, no matter how he needed it.

They had escaped the military instillation what felt a lifetime ago, making use of densely placed buildings and war-torn tangles of city streets and alleyways. From there it had been days in an ever diffusing contiguous grid of suburban yards and roads which gave way to exurb subdivisions and small farming lands yielding to sparsely occupied countryside. Far from where they needed to be, it had been days afoot avoiding populated areas, moving forward at a crawl, going out and scouting then returning and trying to get the gaggle of humans to exercise some sense of stealth, all in an effort to follow the coordinates Major 'Hakkamr had sent.

Groups of human soldiers, frightened civilians, and a few Sangheili had found their way together in this equivalent of outlands. Their single operational vehicle had been used to move those who were unable to keep up on foot; and the soldiers, human and Sangheili, and all those of able body who could keep up had flanked the pitiful transport for safety as they pushed mercilessly forward.

Then the ships had fallen.

Then the storms had come.

The ragged collection of soldiers had been determined to continue onward as frigid winds and driving rain had kicked up, but Grand-mama Larouche had insisted the smaller ones could not continue the rigorous travel in such conditions, even riding in the truck. Reluctantly, Torsch and the others had briefly differed to her female judgment on the matter.

They had been driving forward for days without adequate food and meaningful clean water and as the group had holed up for days in the dilapidated remains of a large building, the gravity of their situation had closed in on Torsch like a creeping fog.

Humans were physiologically weak creatures. They were a strictly endothermic species and had little to no control over their bodily processes by comparison. They could not consume carrion; their preference for fresh, cleaned and cooked meats was one born of digestive necessity against disease and illness; and though omnivores, their diet was limited in which vegetation and fruits could be consumed safely.

Sangheili derived heat from internal and external sources and could slow or stop certain bodily processes; edibility was not determined by levels of freshness or organic decomposition; disease and illness were practically unheard of; and they could derive minerals and nutrients needed for basic survival from consuming dirt if necessary.

Hunting and security details had been shared amongst the soldiers and even a couple of the younger humans had expressed a desire to participate.

'Korid smiled as he glanced into the back of the leading vehicle at the two human boys. Propped against one another along the edge of the covered truck bed, clutching rifles like rookie Minor Domos exhausted after their first field mission…they were so damn _young_.

There was no way to accurately compare the rates at which humans and Sangheili developed, physically or psychologically. Humans were developmentally children for far longer than Sangheili and had significantly shorter life expectancies. At their age, 'Korid had been an experienced Major Domo, a legal adult for three years who had already seen combat, several times over and was due promotion. Yet, in their world, these males had not yet reached the age of majority. What they had experienced could easily be equated to a Sangheili child being tossed into war before the end of childhood training. Torsch could not help but look at them and think of his own sons. Though they were all adults, and he had laid eyes upon only two to his knowledge, the very notion of any of them being prematurely exposed to such things unprepared was infuriating.

Still, the human boys had done exceptionally well. They had absorbed everything 'Korid and the others had taught them like little sponges. They had watched and listened and had applied what they learned to their own movements. Torsch had to admit he had a sense of pride in them for having survived.

In the end, the winds and rain had driven all sources of food fit for human consumption into hiding. They had been left with nuts and saturated fruits and other such meager sustenance gathered from the surrounding area. Half of that was unacceptable. 'Korid had looked at the collection of small humans and come to the realization they could not stay and wait out the storm. Most of them were succumbing to a sickness of the combined exposure and inadequate care.

Against Grand-mama's objections, scout teams had been sent out to vet the way and before the hail and winds abated they pushed onward.

_That cantankerous old woman, _'Korid thought.

He was a warrior, _damnit, _not a coddling maid. He had had no intentions of doing nothing and just watching them _die_.

Bending and flexing his right arm, 'Korid rolled his shoulder as he looked out at the running lights of the truck ahead.

When they had come sufficiently close to the coordinates relayed by 'Hakkamr, scouting teams had been found by a parameter patrol. After days of walking, Torsch was now riding in a resurrected Warthog sloshing carefully down a worn roadway following their remaining scavenged vehicle and flanked by a pair of the patrol's battle-ragged Ghosts.

Brakes squalled and the tucks slowed; the Ghosts circled the tailing Warthog and disappeared as they moved up the line. Voices trickled back and Torsch climbed awkwardly from the human vehicle and greeted armed Sangheili soldiers. Eeth 'Garen clapped a fist to his chest in salute and barked a soldierly acknowledgement. 'Korid returned the gesture and barked in response as human soldiers with plasma lights began checking the newly arrived vehicles and their contents.

At a roadblock twenty meters ahead, Sangheili stood at a well fortified checkpoint.

The two human boys leaned from the back of the truck and peered around. Torsch approached and watched as a familiar, soggy human soldier approached. Private Cory Trice shined his light up into 'Korid's face and with a grunt of irritation, Torsch waved the light away. Trice apologized before rounding the truck bed shining the light past the Sangheili, scanning beyond the two civilian boys holding Covenant plasma rifles.

"Oh, _shit_," he yelped.

Sangheili and human soldiers jogged near at the outburst and upon making their own inspections began hollering for vehicles ahead to make way, for personnel at the checkpoint let the truck through and to radio ahead for the nurses.

"_Shit…_" Cory said again in disbelief and horror.

Grand-mama Larouche bristled like an angry hen at this repeated offense and gave a sharp response in French. She could not speak English, but she understood it.

Trice looked to 'Korid with confusion, "She said, '_Watch your mouth_'," the Sangheili translated.

* * *

"Amy," Naaco's small voice called from the other side of the closed door followed by a series of soft knocks.

Starr opened her eyes, rousted from restless, dreamless slumber, not aware until that moment she had even fallen asleep.

It had been a long...

How many days _had_ it been?

Things around the orphanage-turned-refugee camp had gone into high gear since the Covenant ships fell from the sky; and Amy had been left with a constant feeling of jetlag from pushing herself beyond the already inordinately long daylight cycle of the planet.

Even finding herself the ranking human in the complex, and being able to step back from most operations, there was still plenty to be done.

Domestic issues had taken on a life of their own. Civilians had readily stepped up and taken on duties necessary for day-to-day functioning. Most of that was coordinated and facilitated by the monastic Sisters. These were women who had lived years in seclusion, taking on duties which supported those of the faith who ventured out into the secular world. They produced clothing; made candles and soap; raised cattle, sheep, and other food and wool-bearing herd animals; tended a small remaining vineyard and distilled holy wine; raised grains for communion bread; grew all their own crops and made cheeses; and extracted their own fuel for generators: there was a lot they could, and were perfectly willing, to teach and share.

This had left the Elites and human soldiers looking to Kote and Amy for military leadership. With no other ranking members having arrived, 'Hakkamr had become the Sangheili's default leader, at least for the Stealth soldiers. There was a Special Operations General Dak 'Varlemai around somewhere but…he didn't exactly strike Amy as the brightest bulb in the chandelier and, despite technically outranking the Stealth Major, Dak seemed perfectly agreeable to anything Kote wanted to do.

Amy and 'Hakkamr had organized and deployed several recon and scavenging teams for military supplies. Stockpiles of armor, Covenant comms systems and a tower, human and alien small ground vehicles, a civilian eighteen-wheeler fuel tanker, weapons, and active camouflage were now filling storage buildings, in use by patrols, or parked on the courtyard. Just as soon as they had some direct intel from the forward scout teams, a counterassault on Fort Champlain was a high probability.

Patchy reports from incoming refugees had the attack as coming from combined members of rebel groups operating on the planet. If true, those innie bastards had made strategic strikes taking out weapons caches, munitions, food supplies, and water. They had clearly intended to kill as many people as possible: men, women, and children alike.

No one acknowledged it out loud, but after that kind of offensive, whoever was behind this was unlikely to just let it go. Gator, Foxy Lady, and the other members of the Freedom Guard Riders had seemed to have drawn a moral line in the sand. Despite Amy's perception of them as rebels or rebel sympathizers, they were clearly eager for some get-back. Even with most of the casualties being humans, the Elites were highly motivated to make an offensive. Eeth and a handful of other Sangheili had spent a great deal of their down time with the adolescents and children and there had developed something fundamental in their desire for revenge.

Over the past few days, the Elite's numbers had grown to just shy of twelve hundred, humans to half that. A lot had gotten done, but there were a lot of details yet to address and it had begun to take a toll on Amy. The constant cycle of upheaval was not being kind and part of her envied those who did laundry or went out hunting for food.

But, _fuck it_, she would do what needed to be done, technical engineer and all.

Starr sat at her bedside getting her bearings for a few moments, her stomach turning as a sour feeling rolled around in her gut. What did she eat last? _When_ did she eat last? Her extremities felt drugged and her head felt numb, she was mildly disoriented for a few seconds as she blinked and looked around the top-floor room she called her own. Darkness blanketed the walls like a tomb and Amy could hear the murmur of many voices seeping up in waves from the lower levels.

What time was it?

"Amy?" _knock, knock_.

"Yeah, I'm up," Starr mumbled.

She rose, noting with mild disgust she was still fully dressed, boots having left clods of dried mud on the quilt covering her bed. With a groan she stepped across the room to open the door. Light from illuminated hall fixtures assaulted her eyes and Amy squinted, seeing Naaco as he gave her a frightened and apologetic look.

He was scared of everything. It was a quality which Amy found both sad and frustrating. The small Elite had learned a fair amount of English in a short time, but now that Yipip was in charge of the comms tower and making contact with other Elite units across the planet, the slave was more or less adrift. Because of Kote, Naaco was afraid of Penny, though she had never given him a reason; and instead of killing him, the other Elites acted as if the slave didn't exist. That had left Amy as the one he gravitated to when she was not otherwise drowning in things which needed doing or overseeing or thinking about.

Amy yawned and rubbed at her eyes, "What is it, Naaco?"

Naaco twiddled with the manacles on his wrists, big yellow eyes canted to one side in a silent plea for some kind of forgiveness, "Penny said to tell you: he is here."

His voice was not at all like the other Elites'; not loud and demanding and intrusive. His pronunciation of certain words was a bit off because he hadn't yet figured out how to compensate for the shape of his mouth with the formation of some human words. He seemed to be picking up English, French, a Creole derivative, and even that Italian-French hybrid some of the outer colonials spoke. Though, with his limited language skills, Naaco didn't speak in a haughtily proper fashion.

_Do the rest of them speak _all_ languages like that? _

Amy shook herself out of it before her mind could go down a rabbit hole of thought out of pure exhaustion. She already had entirely _too much_ Elite knowledge rattling around in her head.

Living and working in close proximity she had picked up the most bizarre knowledge. Granted, while this had made it nigh-to-impossible to look at the Elites as anything other than _people_, it was…well...

Listening to them talk about their homeworld, it was apparent that, like humans, Elites were simply animals further evolved in the prevailing class of their home planet. Convergences between themselves and other sapient species were the result of separate evolutionary plains reaching common agreement on the most advantageous internal and external forms for a somewhat similar environment.

Being so close to them, Amy came to realize that though the word _reptilian_ was often thrown around to describe the Elites, that wasn't technically correct, and they didn't seem to fit _any _classification she had read about way back in high school in biology class. The Elites could consume beyond their immediate dietary needs and slow their internal functions to conserve fuel for later use without the necessity of converting to fat storage and without sacrificing overall system efficiency. They could regulate body temperature by either internal metabolic functions or by drawing on external sources, independently or simultaneously if the need arose and the climate was agreeable. While largely carnivores, Sangheili could eat just about anything.

_Anything. _

There was a preference for cleanly processing meats and preparing them in a civilized manner, but their digestive systems were capable of breaking down sinews, bones, guts, and fur.

Their bodies were ridiculously efficient.

Never in her life did Amy imagine she would be in the position to know Sangheili piss was a better, cleaner fuel than human piss.

_Just...gross._

"What?" she asked with a frustrated yawn. Starr rubbed her hands across her face in irritation, this was precisely the kind of mental rabbit hole she wanted to avoid; but she was _so_ tired…

"Who's…" she started to ask but the question died on her lips and she was suddenly wide awake as realization lighted in her fuzzy brain.

Naaco cocked his head in curiosity just as Amy leapt forward.

The small Sangheili skittered back in surprise, "Sorry," Amy called over her shoulder as she dashed down the hall and around a corner to begin clomping down the staircase two and three steps at a time.

On the lower landing she paused and took in the cramped main rooms. Throngs of filthy, soaking, shivering civilians in the midst of tearful reunions and contained but frantic searching greeted her. Many of them were children. _Most _of them were children. From toddlers to teenagers, they clung to those they knew and openly searched faces for those they recognized. A few were crying while others had that vacant look of long-suffering. A few soldiers tried to work with some of the on-duty patrols to keep a general sense of order to the tangle of humanity. Nuns bustled about herding sick and pale, sniffling and coughing children through the house and out the side kitchen door toward the make-shift infirmary.

Amy felt like she was wading through a sea of people on her trek to the open front doors.

_More_ people spilled into the house from the porch and Amy caught a glimpse of Grand-mama Larouche embracing a crying Penny. A dirty, snotty-nosed toddler was sandwiched between the two women's bosoms as they hugged awkwardly around Penny's enormous middle. Starr wriggled through the crowd of soaked newcomers, forcing her way to and out the open front doors. Across the lawn people were strewn from a ragged civilian box truck surrounded by patrol vehicles; all parked haphazardly in the mud and drizzling rain.

A grubby teen girl led a line of small children toward the house, each holding the hand of the one in front and behind and following the weary young woman like a row of ducklings hunkered against the rain.

Gripping a support rail as she paused at the head of the porch steps, Amy's heart was in her throat as she scanned the muddy and drenched, exhausted crowd of largely unfamiliar humans and Sangheili milling about.

Even when she saw him, her mind refused to believe it. She descended the steps in a trance, walking out onto the lawn and through the mass of people as she questioned her eyes repeatedly, largely unaware of the tiny, cold droplets of rain which pelted her. Pushing down the line of vehicles left to idle, Amy watched as soldiers and civilians worked to help the last few passengers from the patrol's covered utility truck. Some distance away from the small convoy, two teenage boys were holding battered rifles and standing rigid in their best, unpracticed effort at attention. 'Korid had taken a knee in the muddy drive, his helmetless head in profile as he spoke in deliberate, but gentle, sentences.

It was a man to men talk.

Amy stopped near the rear bumper and felt her chest tighten at the sight. In the muted light cast from various sources, Starr could see how filthy the young men were. Their eyes were puffy and tired, the rain was following well etched trails through the dirt on their faces and hands.

A young woman carrying a sleeping infant in one arm and steering a toddler with the other hand trudged just behind them. The little boy being led along looked at Torsch as they walked past. He tugged against the woman's hand and looked back at the Sangheili as he was pulled toward the house. Gripping the wet, threadbare stuffed dog he carried tightly under his arm, the toddler jerked his hand free of his escort's. The boy's shoes splashed in the mud as he ran back to 'Korid. Without pausing in his lecture or so much as looking away from the youths, Torsch reached out and collected the child up in one arm.

As if it were the most natural thing in all of the universe, the Sangheili lifted the boy against his massive chest in the crook of his elbow. Still clinging to his stuffed puppy, the child poked a dirty thumb in his mouth and rested his head against 'Korid's shoulder.

"Yes, sir," the teens answered in unison and Amy vaguely became aware Torsch had finished speaking. The adolescent's brave-faces were drawn against pain and grief, fear and exhaustion.

There was no telling what they had seen and done

Torsch slung his own rifle and stood, pausing to give the youths a critical appraisal, looking wonderfully at odds holding a sleeping toddler.

With a nod, the Stealth Major closed his right fist and brought it against his chest with a bark. The boys slung their weapons, eagerly returning the gesture and mimicking the sound as best they could. The child stirred ever slightly as Sangheili within earshot gave barking rejoinders. The chorus of sounds came from various places nearby and the boys turned and hustled toward the house.

As he let his gaze follow them , Torsch saw Amy standing next to the truck. The corners of his mandibles reflexively turned up at the sight of her: safe, alive, unharmed.

She approached cautiously as he passed the sleeping child back off to his patiently waiting ward. 'Korid watched as Amy walked near, looking down at her as she stopped and stood directly in front of him. Starr felt her heart break as she looked up into his smiling face.

The whole left side of his head was covered in fading bruises and freshly scarred-over scrapes. Tissue around his left eye was puffy and various shades of black and fading blue; an ugly line marked the path of a near-fatal bullet graze along the side of his head, down his cheek, and across an upper mandible. Hastily healed scratches and odd-shaped bruises gave testament to a helm which had been shattered while still on his head.

"Hi," Amy croaked, holding her own hands, fingers fidgeting in an effort to keep herself from reaching out and touching him. They had talked enough for her to know in his culture public displays of, well…_anything_ remotely resembling affection were generally frowned upon and regarded as disgusting and lewd. That felt like years ago, but the air still thickened between them and everything inside of her was dying for the smallest touch just to make sure he was really real.

'Korid's smile broadened, one side of his mouth lifting higher than the other. His expression was lop-sided against inflammation and bruising. She was doing well to contain herself despite the emotions swimming in her beautiful, dusty blue eyes.

"Hello," he rumbled softly, completely forgetting himself and reaching to touch a lock of hair before letting his fingertips brush her cheek.

Amy puffed out a breath which was half laugh and half sob, tears spilling over and mingling with the rain droplets on her cheeks. "What took you so long?" she asked, trying to sound annoyed through the knot of fear and relief in her throat.

The Sangheili chuckled softly. He cupped the side of her face and with the pad of his thumb wiped the moisture from her cheek. "We could not leave the children," he answered softly.

Amy closed her eyes, turning her face into the warmth of his palm and knew in that moment that she was completely in love with him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Warning**: Lemon. Yup, it is that kind of chapter peoples. The first, but definitely not the last, in this story. If you don't want to read it, then don't. Otherwise, enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

**Outside New Saint Etienne/ Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

Evening was clear for the first time in over a week. The sounds of night birds filled the air as they went about early scavenging and hunting, still making up for meals lost during the storms. The grounds had been completely soaked after nine days of downpours; and after two days of sun, mud had dried to a deceptive crust: hard-packed in some places, hiding slaloms of muck in others.

Amy made her way down the wide stairway and wandered into the main house's kitchen. The shadowed light of late afternoon fell through the small window over the sink and lit the neatly tiled floor with a pillar of yellow from the glass side door. She had managed to let herself sleep after dealing with that morning's early arrival of Father Bradshaw and his band of not-so-merry keepers.

The priest was ill, in the way the young, old, and physically frail often were when exposed to the worst of conditions. Aside from that, N'Rule, the soldiers Amy had allowed to stay, and the bikers who insisted on staying back at the Old Town church had arrived and confirmed the worst fears of everyone privy to command level information. The roving cannibals they had heard rumors of were very real. They were no ghost story forged from apocalyptic level panic and fatigue fuelling over-active imaginations.

Forget, for the moment, whatever was happening on Fort Champlain; forget leftover Brutes and back-biting Rebels. There were honest-to-God people out there eating other people. Not because they were down to no other choice, which was somewhat excusable in moral terms, but because they wanted to.

That was information requiring a mental time-out on Amy's part.

The heavy smell of rich coffee lingered in the kitchen and she checked the industrial carafe, standing on tiptoes and lifting the lid to peek into the over-sized stainless cylinder. Satisfied with the dregs; Starr retrieved a squat cup left dirty in the sink and went through the motions of washing it, watching through the window as day-shift patrols walked across the courtyard to report in. As soldiers made their way to Kote and the delegated patrol NCO, whose name Amy wasn't awake enough to remember yet, their on-duty counterparts were loading up into scavenged UNSC, civilian, and Covenant vehicles.

Near the forge, Eeth and other junior Stealth and Spec Ops Sangheili, and several younger human soldiers not engaged with any official assignment, were circling a group of older children and teens in the midst of some type of evening drill. Now that the rains had died out, the ritual of martial exercises had resumed. It had never been an officially recognized thing, just something that had sort of happened.

Soldiers of different species had shared their combat experiences. The younger of the human soldiers and the younger of the Elites had migrated together in the same way Amy had seen military personnel of various branches drift into friendships on board ships and at duty stations, drawn to the mutual experience of youth. Likewise, adolescents on the cusp of adulthood desperately wanted to be part of something: to fight for something if necessary, and they sought out those most like themselves. Times of training were broken by regular periods of schooling, chores, assigned duties, meals and other necessities. Life was made as normal as possible.

Amy laughed to herself, _N__ormal_.

She yawned and filled her cup from the carafe's spigot, tipping the metal decanter to get the last drop of burnt, ground-filled goodness. Sipping at the overly hot liquid, Starr leaned a hip against the counter and watched through the window as a small gathering of people stood outside the refectory building. Nuns with soiled aprons over their habits and civilians in grease-splattered clothing said the first shift of dinner cooking was done and a break was underway.

Amy's stomach gave a growl of complaint at the thought of food but she ignored it as she spied 'Korid emerging from the foreman's trailer-turned-temporary-command center. General 'Varlemai, N'Rule, the bikers, and the ragged soldiers who had most recently arrived stepped out to go their separate ways behind him. Starr didn't care that the Elite's in charge were having a debriefing/powwow with the latest arrivals without her; there were some things she was thankful not to be asked to think too much about.

Overhearing 'Varlemai's short but pointed take on handling the cannibal and Fort Champlain situations was enlightening, to say the least. Although they had all stopped looking at everyone else as aliens and had begun to see each other as people, what the Sangheili General was proposing could set the Elites apart again, no matter his intentions.

Starr could play end-of-the-world-soldier with the best of them, but when it came to having to think of what Dak planned to do…

There were some things Amy didn't want in her head or on her conscience.

_Technical. Engineer_, she kept telling herself, _Wa__ter purification and improvement expert._

As she continued to watch through the window, 'Korid made his way across the courtyard, headed directly toward the infirmary. Starr sipped noisily at her coffee and drummed her fingers on the countertop.

Of all the things she had to worry about: scout teams attempting to make contact with Ceane and North Etienne; a roving band of crazies out there somewhere terrorizing the countryside; the potential of being a party to the torture of human beings, Amy's most pressing and immediate concern was one Stealth Major.

What transpired following his arrival had been somewhat of an orchestrated maelstrom. People had converged on the main house _en mass_, understandably searching for their loved ones. 'Korid and many of the others had worked for hours with duty personnel to keep the gathering contained and sort out appropriate quarantine and work up debriefing schedules. Eventually, fifty-odd children of varying ages, a handful of adult civilians, and the soldiers were triaged, cared for, record-processed, fed, assigned quarters, and clothed and afforded opportunities to bathe. After all of that was said and done, it was not uncommon to see Torsch lingering near the infirmary.

Then, N'Rule and the others had arrived with Father Bradshaw and horror stories of outer goings on had been confirmed in detail and consumed almost every spare moment.

Amy had caught precious few and fleeting glimpses of the man she had come to know. So much so she had begun to wonder if any of their rooftop conversations had even happened.

Torsch was irritable and generally humorless, exactly how he had been at first, only more so.

When she had managed to catch him alone he was distracted, though clearly trying to focus on reclaiming the easiness they once shared. She had done her best to just let him be, feeling guilty for her own longings and seeing how distracted and confused he seemed. He was struggling in a way she actually understood. He had had to lock himself back in that shell of self-preservation to survive and do what needed to be done, and now he wasn't sure it was really safe to let it go.

Amy narrowed her eyes, pouring the last bit of sludge-like coffee down the sink and watching as 'Korid disappeared through the infirmary doors.

She turned on her heel and made her way back upstairs and down to the end of the hall. She stepped into the chaos that was her personal room. Boxes of junk, meaningless to anyone else, were stacked to the ceiling in places, quickly taking over all livable space. As more and more people had come in, rooms once used for the storage of her personal collection had been needed for housing. Almost all habitable space was currently in use, leaving Amy to cuddle with the things she refused to let go of. They kept her sane. They gave her something to look forward to: a day when this would be over and all that was left was the history, the pieces that reminded later generations this really happened. Amy even had it in her head she would give up playing Army and just do something quiet and _normal_ and completely bloodless in her next life, like setting up a nice museum.

_Yeah._

Amy searched around boxes and hunted beneath her bed for the last piece of UNSCA attire she possessed: a faded and ripped uniform blouse. She had torn the name and rank tabs off and written her own in sharpie in their places…back when she had still cared.

_What a difference a few months marooned in hell could make._

Finally locating and donning her military blouse like a jacket, Starr gathered up the quilts folded neatly on her bed, stopping down the hall at the linen closet to grab a few more before making her way down the stairs. As she stepped back through the kitchen, she juggled her load and idly lifted a numbered key tag from the row of crudely arranged nails before fumbling with the door latch.

Realizing she really cared about Torsch had been, well, not wondrous or flowery or sweet. No, it had been more like falling face first down a rocky embankment. It was terrifying and had been enough to keep her reined back these two very long days.

Which was okay.

He needed space.

Deep down, she knew those were just easy excuses. She was scared but she couldn't keep leaving him alone in that hell. It was too painful to think about and dangerous…for him and for her already overly involved emotions.

Starr stepped out the side door and a gust of chilly wind caressed her legs through the tight breeches she wore. She cursed. The suns might have been back for a couple of days now, but the insulated cold from heavy atmospheric upset had yet to let up.

It wasn't so bad, except for the breeze.

Amy made her way around to the side of the main house and to the staging area for the pool of collected vehicles. She jerked open the remaining bottom half of a civilian SUV's tail hatch and stuffed the blankets in before walking a full circle around the modified vehicle.

The utility truck was a full-sized model long out of production. The large, square-bodied hulk had been chopped into a convertible, its custom white vinyl top was held in place with chromed buttons and rivets. It had a lifted suspension and oversized mud tires, and stuck out with its bright electric green paint which shimmered with metallic flakes.

As Starr went around, she popped the vinyl cover loose from its chromed moorings and wrestled with the zip connecting the front and rear pieces. The truck was ugly, but it would do. It also fired right up. Amy gave the UNSC/UEG Military ID badge still clipped the rear view mirror a flick then easily jockeyed down the hill, pulling around to the back of the refectory.

She piled out and slipped through the building's rear door. The industrial kitchen was huge, all stainless-steel and white tile. With most of the workers on a break around front, the kitchen was mostly empty. A nun was casually washing a large pot in an over-sized sink. A civilian woman moved about fitting trays dotted with raw dough balls onto a curing rack. The scents of various foods and heavy oils permeated the air and the murmur of chatter from the dining hall drifted in. Foxy Lady was kneading a huge pile of dough, giving Amy an inviting but curious look. Starr just smiled then went about rummaging cabinets.

In a place which had been set up to run on bounteous donation from across the colonies, there was every size and assortment of pan, dish, and pot imaginable, all neatly stowed, not necessarily in matching sets or with discernable lids. She grabbed several and went about scavenging food from the huge dishes waiting to go out to the service line.

Amy retrieved a small shipping crate from under a counter and began setting the filled dishes into it, nestling the containers with towels and securing lids. She topped the box off with a few other needed items, located a jug, filled it with water, then lugged the whole lot out to the truck in one precariously balanced trip.

She then maneuvered the vehicle across the courtyard and left it to idle in front of the infirmary. When she stepped into the tidy, white-washed building she found 'Korid at the far wall, one burly shoulder propped against the sill of a long interior window as he stared unseeing at the room beyond.

Though he had taken care of himself well enough, Amy was sure he hadn't been eating. The scrapes and bruising to his face had barely begun to fade, which was not normal for an Elite's usually ramped-up metabolism. He was also absently rubbing at his right shoulder. Starr had seen him do that enough she had begun to suspect he was more injured than he let on.

He didn't look up as she approached and Amy felt her stomach turn in a knot of uncharacteristic nervousness.

She had missed him.

She _still_ missed him.

Stopping at his side, Amy followed his vacant gaze through the thick glass into the ward. Most of the beds were empty, save one tiny, fully-enclosed hospital-grade crib holding a swaddled infant. The sick children had been released back to their loved ones or to caregivers after a day and a half of observation, or earlier, once nurses deemed their illnesses posed no risk of contagion. Meanwhile, the smallest one remained and continued to struggle for every breath, even in an antiquated oxygen-rich bubble. The nurses had been unable to keep fluids down her and in the unknowing pain and frustration of babes she had ripped IV leads out until her little veins couldn't take it anymore.

She was dying.

Amy watched in silence as Sister Penelope consulted a once obsolete, hand-written chart and made a notation. At least the infirmary had enough medical supplies to keep an infant sedated. Father Bradshaw sat in the fading sunlight falling through a corner window. He was bundled in a thick robe, his wrinkled head bowed in prayer as he clutched his battered and worn Bible.

"Hey," Amy whispered, running her hand along the underside of Torsch's armored forearm, sliding her fingers to twin them with his.

He flicked his eyes to her for a fraction of a second, mandibles drawing together tightly. Amy felt his fingers close around her hand as he spoke quietly through clenched teeth, "I pushed them too hard and…"

"Stop," she softly interrupted.

Elite man-pride was insufferable, but their inflated egos were ill-equipped to handle this kind of perceived failure. Though it was heartwarming on a very fundamental level to see him capable of this depth of compassion, Starr found herself missing the cocky arrogance. She would take that over morose brooding any day.

'Korid shook his head, hand tightening around Amy's, "She will _die_ because…"

"And the rest of them are _alive_," she insisted, and then added gently, "No one blames you for this."

He slowly bowed his head, resting his forehead against the glass, and sighed with lower mandibles quivering. He could not stop thinking about it. There were other ways he could have handled the situation even though part of him knew there was nothing else he could have done. The feeling of utter failure gnawed at hard-ingrained instincts. It was the reason he could not let himself enjoy Amy's presence, even sensing how that disappointed her. He did not know what to feel and the very idea a female would not blame him for this was something which felt wrong and he could not understand.

"Come on," Amy prompted, unable to bear it another moment. She tugged at his hand and Torsch lumbered upright, eyes lingering on the sight beyond the window, balking ever slightly as she pulled at him again.

He resigned himself and turned with one last look then followed her without question as she led him out the main entry, across the wide porch, and down the steps to the idling truck.

"What is this?" he asked with hesitant skepticism, stepping to inspect the cargo bed, cocking his head to one side and sniffing suspiciously. He felt his stomach growl violently at the rich aromas tickling his nose: smoked meat and the sweet scents of baked vegetables and bread.

A measure of his sadness lifted at Amy's careful and uncertain laughter, "Just get in the truck, _'Korid_," she jeered with guarded but playful familiarity.

* * *

Amy drove them away from the complex until the whole collection of buildings disappeared, following a well-traveled path used by the perimeter vehicle patrols. After what felt like miles she turned off and paved her own way up the slope of a grassy knoll and parked on the downward side. The view stretched across open grasslands and overgrown vineyards gone wild, all the way to the fuzzy and jagged rise of a wall of rocky mountains in the distance. Once the suns began to sink in earnest, and the earth was draped in shadow, every so many minutes the lights of a passing patrol vehicle could be seen like a speck far across the expanse.

They ate side-by-side, piled into the bed of the truck, cushioned by a layer of blankets until the day disappeared and the stars slowly came out, peeping every so often through a break in the cloud cover. The meal was delicious: smoked lamb both savory and tangy and not nearly as horrible as Torsch had so long ago imagined. There were oddly sweet vegetables which had not been overcooked, and small, spongy breads which tasted slightly of early fermentation. It had all been strikingly similar to that which would be served on the homeworld and previous trepidation had been proven unfounded.

Then, with the meal well eaten, they put away the remains and sat talking about everything and nothing as they looked up at the veiled stars, just as they had from a rooftop so many nights before.

_That_ felt like a lifetime ago, and despite Amy's efforts, 'Korid had been unsuccessful in getting his hypervigilant nerves to wind down.

He had no rational explanation for it. He had missed her and he honestly enjoyed every clumsy moment and the senseless, biting apprehension which hung in the air around them.

The latter was completely his fault. While the meal had been exceptional the knowledge she had purposefully done this, dragged him away from his misery and tried to bring him back to that place they had shared, had stirred disturbing and fundamentally male longings.

And, _gods, _was she beautiful...sitting so near to him in the diffused moonlight; in clothing which shamelessly hugged every female curve. Torsch damned the contemptible thrill such an audacious bodily display incited. But, it _had _been difficult _not _to notice, even with his general distraction. Oh, how a desperately lonely part of him wished to engage in their once easy and tasteless flirtation...

'Korid felt the heat of embarrassment creep into his face followed by the cold flush of guilt at the implication and total selfishness of such an improper thought. But...when he turned to her she was so close, occupied with looking directly overhead, face turned completely to the sky, the column of her neck exposed and delicately arched back…

He clenched his teeth.

"Sometimes I look around," Amy's voice interrupted the long silence and the thoughts trying to overtake his mind, "and it just doesn't seem real."

Torsch stared at her, not able to formulate an articulate response.

She tilted her face and offered him a weak smile, then scooted nearer and laid her head against his chest. 'Korid automatically put an arm around her shoulders all while warning alarms sounded in his head. Then, almost imperceptibly, "What will you miss the most?" she asked.

The question completely blindsided him. In an instant, anger and sadness and frustration collided. Fight or flight responses kicked over and sent adrenaline slamming through his system. He wanted to rail against everything that question implied: how badly it made him _hurt,_ how much it made him _feel_.

His hands clenched into fists and Amy sat there unmoved, looking up at him guilelessly.

Rage subsided. A cold spike of emotional yielding left pain in his chest and he sighed, dropping his head as he chewed at his mandibles, "I will," he said miserably, unable to stop himself, "miss hearing my nieces and nephews call me Uncle," he spoke through gritted teeth, "and listening to my sisters bicker with our mother."

It felt strange that _that_ fleeting part of his life was what had come immediately to the forefront of his mind. And it hurt more than he could have imagined to, for the briefest moment, acknowledge that small part of his life was gone and, despite his personal wishes, _never _to be again.

"What will you miss, Amy?" Torsch asked, suddenly finding himself barely able to speak around the knot in his throat.

She heard it, the pain of an acceptance she had experience every day for most of her life.

"I miss," she said, "summers on the beach…and the way my dad smelled like Sweet Williams cigars and Red Pony aftershave," her voice cracked and Torsch tucked his muzzle against her head, smelling the clean, flowery scent of her hair.

Amy turned her face up to him and tried to force her mouth into a smile, not realizing how easily hearing herself say the words out loud would tear open old hurts. 'Korid looked back at her with those beautiful green and purple eyes, a reflective sheen playing across their surface while the warmth of his knuckles brushed down her cheek. It felt so…damned good. She sighed contentedly and tipped her head, letting him play the backs of his fingers along her neck.

There was the hot, sticky kiss of his breath a split second before Amy felt Torsch's mandibles lightly touch the side of her throat. Goosebumps broke out across her skin and air caught in her lungs. As his mouth moved questioningly over her neck , Amy angled her head in invitation and worked her hands unconsciously up his chest. She found the lines of his armor and took hold of them as if for support as his lips slowly mapped wandering paths across her delicate flesh and his tongue lazily followed.

When his mouth finally found hers she whimpered and shifted in his embrace as all sense of passivity dissolved. He startled into momentary stillness when she roughly jerked herself up by his assault harness and nipped hard at an upper mandible, ardently moving against him. Her open mouth passed insistently, inviting across his and 'Korid felt her arms slip around his neck. Alarming excitement at her assertiveness coursed through him and collected at his groin as she pulled herself up, aggressively shifting her legs to straddle him.

There were easily two dozen perfectly logical reasons why he could have, and probably _should_ have, stopped it right there…but, at that moment, none came to mind.

Instead, his mouth intuitively pursued hers. Mandibles nimbly explored every angle as he sought to remedy their facial discord and Amy moaned deliciously when he let his tongue tease her full bottom lip.

She tasted of the salty sweetness of their meal and Torsch heard himself groan shamelessly into her as his hands found the delicate curve of her waist. Fingers wound their way beneath the fabric of her shirt and he slid his palms up the warmth of her bare back.

She pressed into him, grinding her hips as his body found alignment and they began slow, suggestive movement against each other.

There was the taste of cinnamon and sugar from the yeast rolls on his mouth. He smelled like the clean of lemon grass and clay soap mixed with that faint Sangheili, boot polish-esque scent.

A _man. _

That was what his underlying pungent, oily smell made her think of.

She wanted him, so badly that it actually _hurt. _As she carefully move against him, Amy knew she had lost a grip on her control. Lust was not among the things she allowed herself to feel but, as Torsch insistently followed her rhythm it was damn sure what she felt. The unfamiliar, rampaging desire had been set loose and she wondered if it was possible for flesh to fuse through layers of cotton-poly blend and Covenant armor.

A part of her was almost dumbfounded to think she was capable of such sexual intensity. Mockingly, the unbridled thoughts of how he would feel, what this would be like, and if everything really fit neatly together streaked through her mind and sent excited apprehension in tingling prickles up the insides of her thighs. 'Korid curled his fingers and raked his dull claws lightly down her back from the tops of her shoulders to her butt. Amy pushed helplessly into him and thought she would die as the sickening, weightless drop of an adrenaline rush raced across her body.

This was the exact _opposite_ of what scores of therapists had convinced her she would need because...

"Torsch, _please,_" she said against his lips, not giving one damn about what she supposedly _needed_.

With that, 'Korid grabbed her roughly. His hands secured around her upper arms as he pushed her away, wrenching them apart. She let out an inarticulate cry of grief as her back curved like a bowstring and her pelvis dug into the armor covering his.

He simply held her like that, at half an arm's length as if to keep himself safe from her. As they gasped for breath an angry glare slowly fell across her face.

His skin tingled and he could hear his hearts pounding in his ears. Warning flares signaled immediate retreat but he could not bring himself to further movement for fear of provoking already inflamed nerves. As bits of his sanity tried to collect, he watched the vexation build in her eyes.

He was not accustomed to this. Every keyed up male hormone was enraged and arousal strained painfully against an armor covering. Stopping it had brought a surge of misery. Fevered desire protested denial and his flesh burned in the absence of her touch.

_No_, he willed his wits to come together.

He was a rational man. His life was ordered and sensible. He was a controlled, structured warrior. Relationships with women were to be strictly practical. He was to engage in practical, detached courtships and have practical, detached sex.

Somewhere along the way frustration and agony and sadness had come together and manifest as _this: _the type of desire which threatened to be all consuming. Sensible common men _did not_ get anywhere near _this. _There was nothing _practical_ about _this_. This was pleasure for the sake of itself, something he knew absolutely nothing about. The whole notion was mind-bending and insane. He had spent most of his adult life attempting not to even acknowledge how pleasurable sex actually was.

It was best not to think about it, but…there was not an unattached Sangheili male with an active hormone in his body who turned down a willing female, for a host of reasons. In general, men of breeding age were violent and horny, or violently horny and…

…_and __it was not nice to make a woman beg._

Torsch squeezed his eyes shut as reason began to dissolve.

He didn't fight when Amy wriggled to free her arms from his grasp. As his hands fell to her waist in open defeat she softly framed his face with her palms, capturing a bemused look before she pressed her mouth to his. Torsch moaned miserably and she felt his lips begin to move against hers. Gently pulling away, Amy's hands slid down the fine scales of his neck as she slowly kissed a line down one mandible then back up another. Making her way across the curve of his snout the soft fullness of her lips patted the dusty line of freckles. With her hands pressed against his chest, Amy could feel the heavy rise and fall of his breath and the rapid pounding of his hearts beneath his armor. Carefully nuzzling the side of his face, Amy felt his mandibles reaching even as she began tentatively kissing the length of the scared line to his cheek.

Moving to sit back, Amy saw him looking at her, pupils widening and lips slowly curling into a predatory sneer.

She smiled in return: the easy expression of an alpha female in complete control. That look had been directed at him on only one other occasion...and he had been too naive to think himself in danger. The sudden parallel his mind had drawn sent his hearts kicking up involuntarily in both scandalous excitement and shameful panic.

Amy mockingly quirked a brow.

Heat flared and a blaze of urgency over took him. When he reached for her she reached back. Mouths tangled hopelessly as hands groped and grasped. They each fought with one another's garments leaving no question as to intent.

After a few fruitless moments of mutual struggle each abandoned the other for their own clothing. They hastily loosed strategic closures and shucked obtrusive layers. Mouths sought intermittently, catching exposed skin and causing the maddening seconds which passed to blister.

Torsch worked to unfasten his groin plate with one hand and came out of his assault harness with the other, deactivating magnetic clasps and dropping the rig over the bedside as he pitched the armored plate over his shoulder. Amy shed her jacket and chunked it wherever it might land, hurriedly unhooking her belt and tearing at the buttons of her pants.

She looked up at him and their gazes locked for a split second in silent challenge. They were two wild animals staring each other down from opposite corners of the same cage.

Despite being mostly still dressed restraint vanished and they came together in a desperate crash of desire. Lips fused and as Amy moved, 'Korid pulled her greedily against him and onto his lap. The truck's suspension protested loudly beneath them. Torsch slipped his hands beneath the waistband of Amy's pants and cupped the soft swell of her rear as he pushed the garment down.

Starr felt the weightless disconnection of consuming desire as 'Korid raked his teeth against her neck and she clumsily tried to help as he worked to get her pants and underthings clear of her knees. Amy braced herself up and let a hand travel the midline of his bodysuit to the straining bulge at his groin. He tensed and his breathing became tiny pants in anticipation. Amy deliberately slowed her advance and smiled like a cat as he began grumbling needily.

With a sympathetic and condescending hum she slipped her hand into the crotch opening and took commanding hold of him.

He was hard and smooth and Amy felt suddenly lightheaded as she stroked him slowly, discovering every thick, swollen inch.

He was not insubstantial in girth and she bit her bottom lip, muffling a pleading curse as her body turned to gelatin and she sank against his chest, whimpering in defeat into his shoulder.

'Korid stilled beneath her, feeling her body trembling as she just held onto him. He knew this was probably not going to work, no matter how much he really, _really_ wanted it to right then. He had never considered himself a particularly well endowed man, but she was considerably smaller than he was and, well...

His hands traveled up the backside of her naked thighs and settled at her waist as he softly nuzzled her hair and whispered, "If you do not wish to…"

Amy jerked upright, still holding him. Torsch matched her incredulous glare with one full of sincerity.

She narrowed her eyes and hissed breathlessly, "Shut up, _'Korid."_

He growled playfully against her lips when she demandingly lowered her mouth to his.

They shared a deep, lingering kiss as Amy carefully freed him then frantically sought position. The sensations were both foreign and familiar; a mixture of instinct and dangerous desire. Starr slipped her arms across Torsch's broad shoulders, using him as an anchor to pull herself closer as she shifted. He panted and groaned and desperately sought her from below; and Amy arched and opened her body to him.

The moment she sensed alignment she sank her hips against his with startling veracity. He snarled angrily at the merciless, tight sensation; and a scream lodged in her throat at the feeling of her body stretching to accommodate him.

For a moment, neither of them breathed.

Carefully, Starr tested movement. She wanted to cry out at how he filled her and despite her best efforts each shift drew tiny, beleaguered moans. Everything else in the universe began to dissolve from perception as she found a careful but demanding rhythm.

It was exquisite and Torsch bit down on his mandibles to hold himself back. He had to. Her movements were forceful, graceful, flowing, rising and falling like waves against the shore.

Torsch could feel her trembling and knew she was forcing her limits. He did not want her doing that. This was not an insemination. There was no rush to get it over with...

Unnerved by the unwelcome intrusion of his past, 'Korid's hands found the curve of her waist and he tried to slow her down, murmuring a deep, keening sound against her neck.

Amy cried out and dug her fingernails into his shoulders. Fear gripping at her, she fought his guidance and bucked against his gentle suggestion.

"_No_," she begged miserably.

Torsch conceded with a snarl. He shushed at her concerns, accepting that this was what she wanted, how _she _needed it. With a moan, he gripped her hips, gently at first, and carefully eased into her tempo, deepening it from below.

She threw her head back in abandon, and as he felt her movements become more bold there was only the two of them. Nothing else, in any time or place or plane of existence mattered. Resigned to the veracity of her desire, 'Korid gripped her hips hard and pushed mercilessly into her as he felt her near her apex.

They moved in time, the pace and vigor increasing and threatening to overwhelm. The sweet whisper of the divine void beckoned...

Torsch had never wanted something more in his life, but Amy's arms began to quake, and her breathing transitioned from pleasured gasps and cries to sharp, desperate sobs. The distress and turmoil in _those _sounds was almost enough to smother his desire.

_Almost. _

Unlike mates who had accepted him before, taking him with the same enthusiasm they would an unwelcome Swordsman,_ this_ woman ached for gratification and that knowledge made the blood boil in his veins.

With a hiss, he wrapped his arms securely around her, stiffeling movement. Torsch maneuvered from the truck bed and she trembled and pleaded as she clung to him helplessly. He collapsed gingerly to the ground, never breaking their union.

Amy let out an _eep _as her naked lower back and rear end was crushed to the cold, damp earth. 'Korid loomed aggressively over her, pinning her to the chilled grass with indifference.

He smiled at the sight of her shuttering helplessly beneath him, _where she belonged_.

Running a hand along the silken skin of her exposed leg he thrust powerfully, sinking fully into her before he took up a slow, thorough rhythm.

Despite an involuntary whimper of pain, Amy scrambled for footing, fighting clothing as she rolled her lower body, trying to hook her feet around his waist allowing him deeper access. She heard him grunt as he took what she offered and increased his pace. Starr did her best not to scream, but every movement was so replete. It hurt but she also thought she would black out from the exquisitely pleasurable intensity.

Leaning to brace against his elbows, Torsch kissed her neck, lapping at her skin as he began thrusting into her violently.

Overwhelmed, Amy couldn't think anymore. She panicked, feeling disconnected from her self and not sure she could remember how to breathe.

'Korid could feel her desperation.

Smell it.

Taste it.

With no concern for her previous command that he remain silent, he nipped at her neck and slid a hand beneath her bottom, changing the angel of descent ever slightly as he rasped in her ear, "_Come for me, Amy_."

She screamed against his chest then tossed her head back, crying out an inarticulate sob as her senses shattered into a million sparkling pieces.

Torsch felt her body lock up beneath him. He snorted in triumph and shuttered as his own fulfillment chased hers into oblivion in a brilliant flash of consuming white hot pleasure.

They lay there for many moments, tangled delicately in a heap, struggling for breath and disoriented.

The sense that the rest of the universe actually still existed around them returned in increments. There was the call of a night bird in the distance; the smell of sex and dirt and grass; and the feel of their flesh molded together.

'Korid's entire body was tingly and his toes were numb. As he opened his eyes he saw Amy. Her head was thrown back in submission, flecks of grass caught in the unruly tangle of her hair. Her beautiful neck was arched...her eyes were clamped shut as if braced against agony and tears streamed down her temples as she breathed in ragged pants.

A crawling sense of panic crept up his spine and self-disgusted shame grabbed hold of his hearts. _She had been very willing but..._

_Dear gods, _he had not intended to be rough with her.

Torsch slowly began to remember himself and the cold, hard realization of what he had done twisted in his gut.

Could he not have exercised _any _self control?

Apparently not. He had taken her like a savage. _Outside_. _On the ground. _She would never let him near her again.

Pushing himself up, 'Korid braced against an elbow and reached with a trembling hand to wipe a line of tears from her face with his knuckles.

"Amy," he whispered apologetically.

Ever so slightly she rocked her head from one side to the other, refusing to open her eyes as her breath turned to hiccups. She moved beneath him in obvious discomfort and he carefully shifted his weight, dropping his head bitterly against her chest.

"I am sorry," he managed in a whisper as he moved gingerly, still towering over her, knowing full well the words were completely inadequate.

This had not been at all what he had let himself imagine. Nothing like the hazy and illicit fantasies which had plagued his lesser consciousness. Plans of slow, gentle lovemaking had disappeared against reality. All determination not to hurt her, not to allow himself to do that...

"Why?" Starr whispered into the silence, her voice quaking.

Torsch winced at the verbal blow. He had never again wanted to know just how much fear, hurt, and confusion that one word could hold, let alone what it felt to have the question directed at _his _callousness.

He had gotten swept up in...and he had _hurt _her.

He had abused her for his own pleasure.

"Amy," he choked, "it was not my intention…"

"_Shut. Up_," she seethed, her voice rising to a heartbroken cry. He lifted his head and she glared at him hard, mashing her nose against his snout.

Torsch clenched his mandibles at the rebuke, seeing the anger in her eyes.

He slowly rocked back to his knees and carefully edged away from her, watching her cautiously from the corner of an eye as he hung his head and righted his bodysuit.

"_Don't you dare_," Amy warned, sitting up to chase his retreat, wrangling angrily with her clothing.

She wasn't about to let him get away with this and then...and then just..._apologize? _

As Starr drew a breath to argue, the implication of his words hit home and hot tears fall across her cheeks, "Don't you _dare_ regret this," she managed to squeak.

'Korid flinched, then snapped his gaze to hers, "What?" He said in a low, confused whisper.

Amy gritted her teeth and looked at him with murderous fury.

Torsch slowly shook his head in puzzlement, "Amy, I... I had no right to hurt you," he declared, desperately wanting her to understand he did not want to be _like that._

Her shoulders slumped and to his surprise she threw her head back, giving a pained and half relieved laugh to the stars before shaking her head and smiling, "You didn't hurt me, Torsch," she said, crawling closer as she worked her way back into her pants. She sat up on her knees and reached to trail a hand along his temple.

His brow ridges furrowed, "But…" he protested, reaching to wipe a line of tears that had seeped into her hair.

Amy felt her cheeks flame in embarrassment. Turning her head in sudden shyness she nibbled at her bottom lip, "That's...not why I was crying," she mumbled.

He stared at her, not comprehending…

_Oh._

"Amy, it should not be like this," he said in soft admonition, "This is not a proper place to…" he let the rest of that statement linger unsaid.

Amy leaned close and kissed the top of his snout, smiling against his skin.

"Then, let's go back to the house," she whispered silkily.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

When they made it back to the encampment the grounds were disserted. Common buildings were dark and only a few lights shone from behind curtained windows in the dormitories. Amy pulled the gaudy convertible into a spot between a battered human truck with a 50 caliber chain gun welded into the bed and the box truck 'Korid's group had come in with. She cranked the parking brake and killed the engine.

Torsch sat opposite her on the bench-style seat. The entire ride back he hadn't spoken a word and the apprehension between them had grown into an almost tangible thing.

"There is something of which I feel you should be aware," he said tightly.

Amy gave him a wry look and sat back against the seat, twisting slightly to prop a booted foot against the dash. Her immediate instinct was to make a joke. _What, you're really a woman? _But as she watched him picking at his fingers and looking at his hands in the darkness she knew it was not the time. Nervousness and worry was evident in his slouched, withdrawn posture. Although, it seemed a little late to be anxious given what had just transpired between them.

"Alright," Starr said cautiously.

He sighed through his nose, nostrils flexing and shoulders rigid, "Amy, I…" there was a pause as he swallowed hard and blinked, "I told you of my injury."

Torsch saw her nod slowly as he did his best to find that emotionless place he had spent most of his adult life. He could stop this right now. End it. Even in his own society he had the unusual right to do so if he pleased without fear. But, he was too exhausted to waste energy rethinking or working to deny his desires. The fact was that while there were some things he would rather leave undisclosed and undiscovered, she was not _blind_.

"My scars…" he began, struggling for the words, pausing to bite down against his lower mandibles as he subconsciously reached to touch his right shoulder.

There were so many memories associated with what he felt he needed to say. Memories which he would have preferred not exhume for various reasons but he had to do this. He had to warn her in case…

It was insane that this was what his personal life had come to. While many men would doubtlessly be in a consummate rush to get a willing female into their bed at so clearly an expressed invitation, Torsch found himself more and more consumed by a sense of anxiety at the knowledge of where this was leading. As intimate as they had already been and as much as his mind had once toyed with the idea of what she looked like unclothed, the reciprocal nature of such a thing left him more frightened than pride would allow him to admit. It was suddenly not an enjoyable situation of which to entertain thought.

'Korid felt overwhelmed by his own foolishness. Reality had caught up with him: he had allowed himself to be betrayed by basic desire.

"Because of the grenade," Amy said softly, interrupting his thoughts, "you told me." She rocked her head from one side to the other and shrugged, "More or less, anyway."

The smile she gave him was warm but Torsch dropped his hands into his lap and looked at them with furrowed brow ridges, drawing his mandibles into a knotted expression of pain. Amy wasn't really sure what he was getting at; then he drew a ragged breath and said quietly, "I have been told that they are…_repulsive_, Amy."

Starr planted her foot back on the floorboard and turned to him. He bunched up his shoulders defensively and shook his head, turning away. Amy watched the freckled back-side of his neck as he looked across the darkened vineyard which flanked the eastern border. As what he was trying to say dawned on her, Amy found herself completely at a loss for words.

It was not something Torsch expected her to understand. While the distinction of his military service easily overrode the deficit of his lineage, it had come at a price. Already short and aesthetically unpleasant in general, to that had been added horrific physical damage; damage which exceeded the limits of that which women found anywhere close to appealing.

Amy had no cause or record to review. She did not covet him because of his distinguished military record, though he had to remind himself repeatedly of that fact. The Star of Apotheos was the only notable thing about him. 'Korid was frighteningly aware that what there was between them had nothing to do with any of_ that_. She did not even _know._

There was comfort in the fact she would never know he was the illegitimate son of a married man and a farm servant. Against custom, Torsch knew precisely who his father was, and it was a knowledge none would envy him. Mother had left the colony, not just to provide her children with a better life, but to keep a disgraceful farm Lord and his vengeful wife from eliminating the proof of the former's illicit indiscretion.

Keeping that information close was not a matter of striving for some level of personal security. Torsch knew what he was and what women thought of him and he had accepted it long ago. There were other arenas of his life in which he had found a personal sense of pride. What was it really that the one woman he had courted took no issue in expressing that her tolerance of his appearance would last only for the time required to accomplish her goals? Why would she treat him differently? Why would any others? Why would they not cringe at the sight of his naked body, or laugh him to scorn? Sangheili females could select casual mates and husbands which fit a desired aesthetic and breed with men of military prowess and divergent genetics for practical purposes. It was their right to do so.

But…was Amy any different? He did not wish to think her callous, but the bulk of his experiences with women had not been a matter of his choosing; and the one woman he had reluctantly pursued thereafter made it clear on both occasions she found him repugnant. She had given him two fine sons, two heirs his mother could see and touch. He had not so much as made direct eye contact with a woman between her and Amy for fear of having one review his record and wish to bear his child. He had no desire to go through that again just as he had no want to feel the sting of Amy's disapproval.

She had said she did not wish for him to regret what they had done, which only left him to face the likelihood she would. Knowing what was between them was purely for pleasure the thought of Amy's inevitable revulsion was more than he could bear.

She watched him for a few moments. Starr realized by his choice of words Torsch was frightened of her rejection and part of her refused to believe he had come out and admitted such a profound self-consciousness. She knew all too well how terrifying it was to trust someone with that level of insecurity; to want to avoid the silent scrutiny of another's eyes. And, that was with the full knowledge the opposite sex_ didn't _find her body unattractive. No, the scars she wanted to hide were the kind that couldn't be seen.

Settling back against the seat, Amy blew out a long breath and leaned her head against the headrest. She turned her face to the sky, "After my dad died," she said, barely above a whisper, "I thought my world couldn't get any more empty."

Torsch peered at her from the corner of his eye, tilting his head.

"My mom didn't grieve in a way a child could understand and…for _months_ after the funeral she dragged man after man into my life; then one day she brought this guy home and announced she was going to _marry _him," she snorted bitterly, "It was like my dad didn't matter and Todd," she shook her head, "he wasn't even a real cop. He was an _informant_; a felon who worked _with_ the police; a con who had found a vulnerable widow about to get survivor's benefits," she pursed her lips into a grim line, "a woman so wrapped up her own need for security she wasn't really paying attention."

Amy took a shaky breath, "Three weeks after they got married, he started raping me," she said flatly.

'Korid jerked his gaze to her.

With the exception of Swordsmen, who were entitled to treat females of legal breeding age any way they wished with or without consent, rape was a _capital _offense. And, though their species matured at a disproportionate rate, Amy had been nine years of age, and that was still within the terms of minority. In his culture such a thing was punitively prohibitive, even for Swordsman, and all but unheard of.

When Starr lolled her head to look at him, his wide eyes narrowed beneath lowered brow ridges and he said venomously, "You were a _child_."

"Yeah," she sniffed before turning her face back to the sky, "and he got away with it for over _three years_ and then…" she gritted her teeth and scrunched up her face as a tear escaped the corner of her eye to slide down her cheek unchecked, "three days after my thirteenth birthday, I found out I was _pregnant_ and that son of a bitch had the balls to blame _me,_" she laughed sadly and wiped at the tear clinging to her chin, "And my mom believed him."

Amy sat up and rubbed her palms across her face. 'Korid watched her warily in the silence, not certain why she was divulging this story. "She was supposed to protect me and instead when she had to face the truth, do you know what she said to me? She said, if I was a dog she'd have me put down. But, of course Todd had a plan," Amy said angrily, "a way to fix everything and make the problem _go away_. They took me to this…_hospital_. One of those places where no one asks questions. I was just a kid but I knew. I overheard them talking to the nurses and I knew what they were going to do to me. I tried to fight but…" she sighed, "Two days later I was so sick and it hurt _so much. _Mom, in some fleeting moment of clarity, wanted to take me to the emergency room. Todd threw a fit. He knew they'd know: knew they'd start asking questions."

There was a pause, "He beat the shit out of her, but when he left for work the next day she called a cab." Amy closed her eyes and Torsch chewed at his mandibles as he turned to look beyond the windshield, "They had torn me up inside," Starr said, "It was so bad; I was never going to have children. The hospital called Colonial Police and filed a report, Child Services was notified, warrants were expedited, mom was arrested right there in the hospital and they picked Todd up from work. My dad's parent's came to pick me up and…they felt guilty about not fighting mom for custody but grandparents don't have rights so I couldn't blame them for what had happened. They got me in therapy but I was so afraid to let anyone near me. It felt like everyone could see how dirty and broken I was and they were all judging me. I know it was in my head but, I didn't want anyone looking at me. It still hurt. Even when I got older the very idea of being naked in front of a man, of letting him _see _me, of having him _touch _me," Amy hugged herself and shivered, "it made me sick. I didn't want to be someone's sex toy."

'Korid grunted to himself; he certainly knew how _that _felt.

"There's only been two men I've trusted enough to let get close to me," she said in a small voice, "One cut my heart out and served it to me on a plate. He didn't mean to, Allan just wanted something I could never give him. I never told him, I assumed he knew. You live with someone for three years and you figure they've figured it out but he never realized until…"

There was a long, uncomfortable silence then Torsch tilted his head slightly, "And the other one?" he asked with careful curiosity.

Amy smiled and laughed to herself. 'Korid narrowed his eyes and she turned her head chewing on her bottom lip, "You're the other one, Torsch," she said quietly.

He stared at her, lips twitching ever so slightly, "Amy," he said painfully, "I…" the nostril slits near the inside corners of his eyes flared.

Starr watched as he began chewing at his mandibles for a moment then he turned and pushed open the truck door and got out. Amy followed him with her eyes as he walked around the hood of the vehicle, fists clenched. He pulled open her door and when he took her hand she followed without question.

As they entered the main house it was quiet and the lights were drawn out on the entry floor. Moonlight fell through windows casting the kitchen and the rooms beyond in an eerie blue-silver. The two made their way up the wide service stairs which wound from an alcove off of the kitchen and a sliver of illumination fell from beneath a single closed door down the long residential hallway on the upper level.

When they approached his quarters, 'Korid keyed the lock and stepped inside, holding the door open as he waited with his face to the floor in a gesture of invitation. Amy stepped across the threshold and walked the center of the darkened room to a small window. She heard a soft _click _as Torsch shut the door.

The room was sparse. Stripped of most furnishings, it was less than welcoming. A side table sat adorned with a squat lamp; a few odd Covenant weapons were clean and placed with precision against a far wall; and arranged on the floor was a neatly folded pallet of blankets. Given their size, the Sangheili had early on relinquished the beds for human use. They made themselves as comfortable as possible and, while they preferred privacy, they were not at all particular about luxuries when it came to where and on what they slept.

Torsch stood with his hand on the small doorknob and looked at the faux wood-textured grain of the door as he silently worked to wrestle his emotions into subjection. When he walked to join her next to the window he could see the patch of side lawn below draped in darkness, the grass trampled and cut with rutted paths from human vehicles.

"When you were gone," Amy said, "I would watch the stars and…" she swallowed before saying quietly, "I'd wish you weren't missing it."

Turning to look at her, Torsch could not help the tiny smile which pulled at his mandibles before he said in a sincere rumble, "I was here."

She smiled back and he turned, crossing the room and pulling the chain on the small lamp. He stood there for a moment then began walking his fingers to the shoulder catch of his assault harness. He unhooked the chest plate with his other hand as he dropped the armored rig to the floor and began deactivating whatever mechanism held the plates on his arms and shoulders in place. He lifted an unsteady hand and slowly pulled an unseen zip at the throat of his bodysuit down across his chest and stomach to his waist, not letting himself take his eyes off of her.

Without breaking the direct, mutual stare, Amy watched in her periphery as he carefully snaked his left shoulder from the suit and pulled his arm free. She smiled despite herself, shifting her gaze and stepping forward to brush her palm down the side of his left arm.

His hide looked pretty much as she had imagined. Bronzed skin was smattered with vibrant freckles along the ridge of his collarbone; a blanket of the colorful scales fell across the ball of his shoulder; and the iridescent marks dotted his forearm and the top of his hand. Aside from the expected, a few scars marred his skin here and there.

When she lifted her gaze, Amy bit down on her bottom lip at the anguish in his eyes.

Swallowing hard, Torsch hooked his thumbs into the right collar of the suit, slipping the garment from his shoulder and barring the right side of his upper body.

Amy tried really hard not to react; but, slowly her brows furrowed and her features knotted together. 'Korid stood still as a stone, watching her as she reached with a trembling hand to touch his right chest.

The hide over his right peck was distorted and stretched tight across the muscle beneath. Aggressively regenerated flesh was gnarled and twisted. It was waxy, devoid of scales or pores, and ridged with thick overlapping layers. It had been crudely revised, gouged and cut to fit the lines of his armor. Amy brushed her fingertips across his chest to his shoulder and down to his elbow where the scar tissue was trenched and the skin folded over itself against the repeated trauma of being cut to release restriction.

Hypopigmented, the scarring was like polished alabaster. An odd network of purple and brown webs spanned the pitted surface like veins in marble leaving a design like the disorganized fronds of a fern. It was a tough, plated mass which covered nearly the full right side of his upper torso. It appeared to wrap up and over his shoulder; enveloped his upper right arm down to his mid forearm; and completely covered his right ribcage and side. It fell in a rippling and creased sheet down his stomach to his waist where it slashed at a harsh angle from the midline of his body to cover his right hip. It didn't look like it was a part of him: more like a massive, fleshy barnacle which was trying to consume his hide. Tissue requiring complete synthesis was far from a perfect replica. It had formed into a keloid, the scar layering over the injury again and again leaving itself raised like a rigid, tumorous growth.

Amy stood taking in the scope of the damage in silence, eyes traveling the unfathomable expanse of a massive burn scar as her fingers touched its ridges and trenches. She slowly began walking a circle around him and 'Korid tipped his gaze to follow her. Even when she stood behind him, brows furrowed and fingers moving to touch her lips, Torsch watched in stoic silence as she made her appraisal.

His back, what wasn't enveloped in a continuation of contorted burn scaring, was covered in scars of a _different_ kind. Old, raised marks crisscrossed his hide. Hashed lines which knotted and twisted over one another in an irregular pattern of stripes proceeded in a thatch and fell in a ragged sheet from just below a dusting of freckles across the ridge of his upper back, down his left shoulder to disappear at the sharp, angular taper of his waist beyond the turned-down edge of the bodysuit.

Amy could feel him watching her but startled just the same when she looked at him and saw the intensity in those sage and lavender depths.

"What happened?" she asked, trailing the nest of marks from where they had been consumed by the burn, brushing a line which whipped along his left shoulder blade and curved in a deep arc, its tailing lash clearly visible on his left tricep.

He blinked at her, brow ridges slowly slanting together in confusion before lowering in thought, "Do you wish a tutorial of all my scars, Amy?" he asked darkly.

Starr looked at him, his head twisted around like an owl as he watched her with a suddenly predatory expression.

"Maybe," she whispered in challenge.

Though extremely confused, he managed a small smile and a deep, soft chuckle anyway.

Torsch turned himself around, seeming to unwind his neck as he moved to face her.

"I was an adolescent," he said, "in my eighth year. It was corporal punishment received for an infraction unworthy of official sanction."

He had been child experiencing the changes which would make him a man. A stranger in a state not at all like the one in which he had grown up. The last official year of his childhood training began with the realization he was unlike the other children in more ways than the apparent. Torsch had had no knowledge of Berov's history and other local teachings. He did not share their religion or many of their customs and struggled with their dialect and verbal nuances.

The physical rigors he had been well prepared for but the mental and emotional ones he had not.

Though required to train him on equal terms with the children of Berov, the Uncles made a point to make 'Korid's life miserable, to remind him he was, at his core, an outsider. This was only bearable because they were equally harsh to one of their own, though for a different reason.

_That_ youth was the son of one of the sitting Kaidon's harem girls. It did not take access to official records of lineage, of which males were forbidden, to be certain who Sicera's father was. One had but to look at him to see the shadow of Kaidon Thearu 'Berovai. The Uncles were determined to do everything to insure they could not be accused of showing their lord's offspring favor.

The boys had been pared together to spar the okona. With staff weapons in hand, Torsch and Sicera had faced off. Customary fighting jeers quickly became rancid insults which crossed private lines of tolerance and struck too close to their respective miseries. Sicera had asked how it felt to the penniless son of a farm_ sow_ and 'Korid reciprocated by telling him it likely felt the same as being the son of a kaidon's _whore_.

A match not intended to result in serious injury quickly flare out of control. Sicera had been the first to cast his weapon aside and Torsch had readily followed suit. They attacked one another bare handed and it was the last time Sicera underestimated how dangerous a small _farm boy_ could be. Before the Uncles of Berov could pull them apart Sicera had broken 'Korid's left mandibles, and Torsch had dislocated the other boy's right shoulder and snapped the corresponding humerus so that it protruded from young 'Berov's bicep.

They both received seventy lashes with an energy whip for their conduct, and were the best of friends from that day forward.

"Jesus, 'Korid," Starr muttered.

He smiled down at her, "Those who live without discipline, die without honor."

* * *

Amy yawned, stretching like a waking cat. She wiggled beneath the warm blankets and reveled in the silky feel of rumpled sheets against her naked skin. It was long into the morning, an unusual new sleeping habit she had taken up in the past few days. Of course, it had more to do with activities which had lasted well into the nights more than plain laziness.

With a disgruntled grumble, Starr opened her eyes to find herself alone in the mass of bedding, the remainder if Torsch's room neat as a pin. Her own clothing was tidy and folded atop the side table, her boots flanking the door. She smiled to herself and stretched again, arms slipping form the bed linens and up into the pillar of light falling from the open window.

A fading bruise encircled her left wrist and a darkening one left an arc across her right forearm. Her smile broadened.

With Torsch, there had never been uncomfortable questions about what would and wouldn't be okay; no awkward, almost terrified touching; no apologies from him for his maleness or for wanting her with the veracity with which he did. He didn't treat her like a glass doll he was afraid to break; and in the past days he had never once approached sex with her as some monumental obstacle to be overcome.

She had found contentment in the fact he _didn't_ play the white knight. He wasn't gentle out of some sense of obligation to her past, which was something she had never known she wanted; it was damn sure not what she had been told she _needed. _

Instead, 'Korid treated her as if there were no walls, no defenses, and no barracades to tiptoe around or overcome. He knew how messed up she was, and still acted as if she were whole and undamaged. Plenty of times he had genuinely made love to her, slowly and gently; but other times had been just on the safe side of violent. And, there was a sacred security in the difference for the both of them. In the latter moments, following aggressive, merciless passion, it was Torsch who sought _her _comforting; while the former times of generosity and tenderness were the ones which always drove her to seek the reassurance of his words and embrace.

With a resigned sigh, Amy crawled from the bed and fumbled with her clothing. She pulled on her pants and shirt then gathered up the remainder of her belongings and slipped down the hall to her own room.

A quick shower and set of clean clothing later, Starr made her way downstairs and out the side kitchen door to the courtyard.

As of yet, 'Korid had been unable to let it completely go, and Amy found him right where she had come to expect him to be at this hour. But, as she entered the infirmary and made her way past the interior window, Starr glanced into the ward and froze. The infant had taken a recent and inevitable sharp, downward turn and Torsch had ventured closer, spending the past two mornings watching the little girl through her isolated oxygen bubble.

Not this morning.

It took a moment for Amy's brain to work out and accept what she was seeing. As her eyes insisted and her mind slowly tried to wrap around it, Starr felt as if her heart was sliding down into her boots. She stood there half reaching for the sill for support as she looked into the ward.

Torsch was sitting by the window. His narrow behind was crammed into a rocking chair, long legs stretched out, ankles crossed as he gently pushed himself back and forth with a booted heel. The rest of him looked completely ridiculous: all broad shoulders and muscular arms. His upper body was covered in the dark material of his bodysuit but stripped of armor plates. He almost looked like he was asleep: arms folded tightly and his chin tucked against one side of his chest. As Amy walked ever past the window and peeped through the door into the ward she could see he gingerly cradled the dying infant in the bend of an elbow.

Swaddled in a white blanket striped with pink and blue standard to nurseries everywhere, the little girl looked so small and was almost lost in the Sangheili's huge arms. A tiny face mask was strapped to her small head and an oxygen tube was hooked to a scuffed tank sitting nearby on its own trolley. 'Korid lightly brushed his mandibles against the soft curls on the child's crown. Just as Amy thought she had worked up the courage to cross the room it suddenly felt as if the world was yanked from beneath her feet and she was knocked on her metaphorical ass.

Torsch started singing.

So softly she could barely hear at first, the richest baritone seeped out to fill the room. Starr couldn't have hoped to understand the words but the tender sentiment conveyed in them cut right through any reservation she might have had left. Amy had no idea it was possible to love someone as much as she loved him in that moment.

She lingered in the doorway for what felt forever. Sister Penelope came and went, checking the readout on the oxygen tank and making a note on her chart. 'Korid never seemed to register anyone else was ever there and continued rumbling his sweet-sounding melody and gently rocking the sleeping infant. By the time the cadence of his voice had slowed and the song neared it's end, Amy found her legs and slowly walked across the room, pausing to sweep the back of her hand across a soft baby cheek rosy against an overall sickly pallor.

The child sighed from behind the small mask and her breath crackled before she wheezed and coughed, squirming in Torsch's arms and making an unhappy face. A small irritable squeak was all she managed in the way of an outcry. Amy jerked her arm away, pinning the offending hand against her chest. As she took a step back, 'Korid pushed off with his heel and began silkily repeating a refrain, smiling down at the baby and nuzzling his snout into her crop of soft ringlets. The child stilled with a hiccup and his voice continued to softly string foreign words together soothingly, the gravelly and guttural nature of the language flowing in a melody that caressed Amy's skin and made her feel flush.

He slowly cocked his gaze to her, a wry smile curling one side of his face when he finished the song. It felt like he was looking into her soul.

Seconds ticked past and a silent exchange no words could have conveyed moved between them. Torsch smiled contentedly, eyelids at half mast, before he turned and pressed his snout against the baby's hair.

Curiosity piqued, Amy tried to speak but her voice failed and she stood there with her mouth moving but no sound coming out.

Torsch spoke into the silence between, "My youngest sister, Nomi," he said gently, a smile curling his mandibles as he continued looking at the infant, "married a man much older than herself. _Much _older," he reiterated before saying in an amused, wistful voice, "Mother was _so _angry," he chuckled to himself, reaching to scratch at his neck and tuck a wayward corner of the blanket, "She sent me a comm about it. How Nomi was throwing away her life and so forth. It was not because Nomi had moved to a state far away, denying Mother ready access to any grandchildren, but because Nomi had taken a husband who could not hope to be capable of providing such. Or so Mother assumed. This further infuriated her because Nomi was not interested in taking another man even with which to breed. Nomi _loved _her husband. Thil 'Sudin," Torsch said the name with a level of respect, "He was the Lord of Garen Keep, client to the State of Sudin. A good man. A man with title and wealth. Not a noble, but a man whose title kept Swordsmen respectfully away from his bride. A man whose late first and second wives had given him numerous sons, sons many times his young bride's age." 'Korid paused in his rocking for a moment, then snorted and pushed off with his heel again, "But, Nomi gave him a _daughter_."

His smile disappeared then and Amy felt a cloud of sadness settle around them.

"_Coh_," Torsch said after a few beats. They remained in silence as he chewed at his mandibles, trying to find the words. He smiled a broken smile, "Nomi came with her daughter when I was brought home. It is customary that siblings return. I was not expected to live." He laughed to himself, "My niece…that child," he turned to Amy then and Starr felt her throat tighten at the depths of his eyes swimming in unshed tears, "Coh was so small, even for a child of almost two years, and not at all afraid. There I lay, her Great Warrior Uncle, blistered and half peeled alive, bandaged and broken and bruised. Everyone was gathered at Mother's house just waiting for me to die. When I woke I could hear the children from the doorway whispering, _'I dare you to touch him'; 'No, I dare _**you** _to touch him'._"

He laughed softly to himself and sniffed, turning back to the infant in his arms, "Then, that tiny female voice said, _'_**I**_ will touch him'..._and she did. Coh was the first thing I recall seeing when I awoke from the coma. Big orange eyes peeping over the edge of the mattress as she stretched her thin little arm and poked at my uninjured bicep."

Torsch softly shook his head, swiping the thumbs of one hand against his lids and wiping the moisture against the swaddling blanket, "I had returned to service and Mother sent me a comm when it happened," he said in a faint voice, "Coh was so completely without fear and it cost her her life. She…wandered off during an exercise of childhood training. They were in the outlands learning to track and she…disappeared. Before her Uncle M'reth could find her, she had come upon a clutch of wild dog pups and…" he gritted his mandibles, "the mother was not far away."

Amy pursed her lips and turned her face down.

"She was four years old. I always wondered: if I had not accepted…if I had refused to…if I had done something differently and _been there_…"

"Don't," Starr whispered, "Don't do that."

He snorted bitterly and rubbed at his temples.

"What was that song about?" Amy whispered, trying in vain to change the subject as she eased to his side and squatted down.

'Korid stopped rocking and gave her a contented smile as she rested her cheek against his forearm and watched the child sleep on. Amy didn't know the first thing about children, but she knew enough to understand the infant's rest was disceptively peaceful.

Torsch sighed then spoke in a soft, dreamy voice, "It is about a young woman," Amy smiled as he hummed a brief strain of the tune before continuing, "The girl was caught with a mate of which her clan did not approve," he said with sweet sincerity, his eyes closing as he made a warm, pleased expression and kissed the top of the infant's head, "so, her Uncles hunted the young man down and castrated him like an unfit bull; and then they nailed his manhood to the keep's gate as a warning."

Amy thought about that for a moment then cut her eyes to see Torsch smiling down at the infant with an expression full of affection.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

**New Saint Etienne/ Governor's Mansion**

"Hagart," Ashmund intoned deeply, addressing the beleaguered, _former_ rebel leader.

Azrael's chiseled facial features were drawn into an expression conveying seriousness as he neatly folded his hands in the small of his back and began slowly pacing. His primary audience for this spectacle were three travel weary, pitiful human souls. They stood in the mansion's library, waiting as Ashmund took his time collecting his words.

"You _sorely_ disappoint me," Azrael finally said.

The two others who would share Hagart's punishment, sun-blistered and filthy, looked resigned to their fates as Ashmund continued to pace. Despite grave expressions, each of the condemned gave Hagart careful side-long glances conveying their solidarity.

They trusted him, even to the bitter end. Loyal members of the Caddo Rebel Fighters, and all which functionally remained of the faction. Hagart, his baby brother, Charles, and his brother-in-law, Lance, were the last of a dying breed. They were men who dared to defy Azrael Ashmund, self proclaimed overlord of Ambrosia II.

Two of Ashmund's goons stood casually near the library's main alcove, holding rifles as they blocked the only avenue of escape. Not that any would try it. Hagart and his men had discussed this on their return trip: everyone agreeing as to the morality. This was the right thing, even though it would cost them their lives.

"You mean for me to believe you have returned _empty handed_?" Azrael asked casually, almost sounding amused, "After almost two weeks in the field," he paused, "After using precious resources...you expect me to believe you have learned _nothing_?"

Hagart straightened, returning Ashmund's cool gaze, "We found no one," he said sternly, "Not a trace," his expression was a cold reflection of the other man's.

Azrael frowned and gave Hagart a hard look before casting a gaze to his door guards. He conveyed an order with a sniff and a jerk of his head before pacing to an antique mahogany side table flanked by an elegant wing backed chair. As time crawled by, Ashmund sipped at a highball glass of deep brandy.

From outside the alcove, shoes scuffled against the floor and a woman's voice could be heard asking the same pleading question over and over again.

Hagart squeezed his eyes shut and steeled himself. The henchmen emerged moments later with Lana in tow.

She was the reason he had returned at all but he couldn't bring himself to look her in the eyes. Lana was all but completely gone but that didn't mean he could leave her behind.

Unaware of her surroundings and incapable of appraising the totality of the situation, she was thrust into the room and stumbled. Lana collected her feet clumsily and looked around with wild eyes full of madness, her hair a thick mane of dark curls and tangled streaks of gray.

Hagart's jaw trembled. Lana. His sweet Lana. He had loved her since they were kids and she had been his wife for forty years.

This was his fault. He never should have brought her into this kind of life. She had always deserved better, just like...

Seeing her, Hagart was painfully reminded of why he had nothing left to fight for. Everything he truly loved was gone.

Lana muttered to herself and let her eyes creep around the room. She looked like a lifelong prisoner experiencing freedom for the first time. Confused. Frightened of her own shadow. Just the shell of a woman whose mind had finally collapsed.

Then, an expression passed across her face and for moment, her eyes alighted and she was his Lana again.

"Hagart!" she cried.

And, then she was gone. Just that quickly the light was strangled out.

Lana lived in a special kind of hell, consumed with a parent's worst nightmare. She moved toward her husband like a woman possessed, "Did you find her? Where is she?" she screamed, balling her hands into Hagart's shirtfront. She had no senses left to perceive the change in dynamic. None of that mattered. It was all meaningless background to her grief: her one consuming thought.

The former Caddo leader sighed wearily, "Lana...she's gone," he said softly, daring to look into his wife's lovely face. Her empty eyes flashed a spark of pain-fueled rage.

She slapped him.

The sound resonated through the cavernous room and echoed up to the vaulted skylight three stories above. Ashmund offered a sorrowful sound while his stooges snickered from their post. Azrael approached and put his arm around Lana's shoulders gently, guiding her away as she broke down in sobs of despair.

"I feel for you, Hagart," Ashmund said, retrieving a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and offering it to Lana. His face softened into an expression of sympathy and long-suffering as the woman accepted the silken cloth and dabbed at her eyes, "For you and Lana, I truly do."

Azrael turned suddenly and splayed a hand thoughtfully against his brawny chest, "Why, I myself have lost those I love in these trying times."

Hagart did his best not to show his disgust. He was sickened to the core as much at that monstrosity consoling his wife as the perverse notion Azrael Ashmund loved anyone but himself. It had never been about helping the colony attain freedom from the UEG. It was always about setting Azreal Ashmund up as dictator. Now...they were _completely _cut off from the rest of the galaxy and there was nothing at all to stand in the way of anything Azrael demanded.

Hagart had made excuses for long enough. He had done and condoned horrible things in the name of the cause; things unthinkable two months ago; inhuman, degenerate things. But, Hagart couldn't do it anymore. There was no cause anymore and what Ashmund was doing and asking others to do was _wrong. _Even a man already damned had his limits._  
_

There wasn't a place in hell fiery enough for what he had allowed and assisted in, but Hagart _would not_ lead Ashmund to a _monastery_. He knew what the other man was capable of. Nuns or no nuns, servants of God or not, Azrael would _punish _anyone who got in the way of what he wanted.

Hagart couldn't figure out exactly why the psychotic madman couldn't just let that poor woman go, other than the fact that Ashmund felt he _owned_ her, and because she had gotten away he really wanted _revenge_.

To prove a point. _No one_ walks away from Azrael Ashmund.

Azreal stepped forward, hawkish black eyes twinkling beneath thick blonde brows tinged with gray. Quick as a snake, he drew a pistol from the holster at his shoulder and pressed the bulbous silencer into Hagart's temple.

"_Where are they_?!" Ashmund roared.

Hagart didn't flinch. He met the other man's enraged glare with silence.

Azrael's nostrils flared like an angry stallion, the tendons in his neck and jaw flexing as he ground his teeth. Hagart could hear molars popping as if Ashmund were chewing hard candy.

Azrael dropped his arm, turned, and began pacing away. He grabbed Lana roughly by the elbow and guided her to her husband's side. As the dictator stepped back he jerked at the buttoned collar of his shirt as if having difficulty breathing. Red-faced, Ashmund glared at the last four of a once allied faction.

_Pathetic. What? Did they really think this would stop him? This little show of defiance was just a waste of time.._

"DAMN YOU!" Azrsel bellowed as he leveled the pistol and fired a round into Lana's forehead.

A mist of blood ejected onto the wall behind. Lana's body jerked once before going lax and she was sent sprawling to the polished floor.

A single tear escaped to slide down Hagart's cheek. Even in the depth of his misery he silently thanked God for this one mercy. Albeit at the hand of a madman in a fit of frustration, Lana wouldn't suffer anymore. She could go and be with...

A high pitched whine turned into a gut-turning wale as a man at the end of the line broke down in infantile sobs. Lance, Lana's twin brother, hit his knees, doubling over against his restraints, and bawled into his hands.

Ashmund turned and walked to his waiting chair, carefully donning a dark suit jacket which matched his pressed trousers, "Take them beyond the city and dump them," he snapped, buttoning his collar and neatening the double-breasted coat front, "Let the Brutes finish them off," he adjusted his cuffs, "and get someone to clean this up. That bitch is bleeding all over my floor."

* * *

**Outside New Saint Etienne**

It was late in the afternoon, but as she emerged from her room, Amy could smell freshly brewing coffee and hear the pot as it gurgled and sputtered downstairs. She took a moment and assessed herself in a long decorative mirror, securing wayward golden strands of slightly damp hair into a loosely braided bun. She puffed out a breath as she gave herself a perfunctory look then threw on a dark, knee-length heavy-knit sweater.

She felt ridiculous; self-conscious as she fidgeted with the cuffs of her charcoal blouse and tugged at the high collar then picked at the shoulder of the sweater. Never one for dressing up, Starr recognized this was not about her and did her best to suck up her discomfort, even as she took in the a-line skirt which fell to her feet. A pattern of thick, canted stripes in black and gray seemed to both conceal her figure and somehow enhance it at the same time. In irritation Amy turned from the mirror. As she stalked down the hall, she took some comfort in the sound of her heavy boots clapping against the hardwood floor.

When Amy emerged from the stairwell and stepped into the kitchen, she found Penny seated at the small breakfast table. Well, the pregnant woman was _near _the table anyway: she wasn't as much _at _it as she was in the general area.

In the time Amy had known her, Penny's belly had gone from obviously pregnant to proportions Starr had no idea a stomach could take. Looking at her, it was hard to believe Larouche still had several more weeks to go, hopefully.

Penny scratched at the sides of her stomach, careful not to disturb Grand-mama as the older woman neatly arranged and tended to the deep brown twists of her granddaughter's hair. Against the Sister's direction, Penny was out of bed. She was also wearing a nice dress, one modified in the days previous by Grand-mama to fit her middle. Two fastidious, wide-brimmed hats sat atop the table and Amy spied Penny twiddling with a collection of bracelets of varying metallic shades on her wrist.

Starr smiled.

The jewelry had been a recent gift from Kote, startlingly intricate and a rare treat in this place. Clothes could be had. This place had been an orphanage about to go into active status. Military grade connexes and shipping containers full of donated clothing and fabric, shoes and other, sometimes outdated, bits of garb were plentiful even with the current number of inhabitants.

But jewelry?

God only knew where he had come up with such a gift. Judging by the pregnant woman's constant, affectionate touching of the accessory, there was an intention in the adornment which likely crossed a few boundaries. Amy could guess at the meaning with minimal use of brain power but figured it was probably safer left unspoken.

This place had made concessions for a lot of things. People had come together like they hadn't before. There was an acceptance, a finality, and what was to transpire at sundown would mean more to those involved than the luxury of returning to shared ceremony.

It would be overly-simple to say what had developed early on between Penny and Kote; and recently between Amy and Torsch, was little more sociologically than a predictable, though unintended, consequence of the overall situation. Sure, it had been happening since the beginning of history. Anyone's. It was part of what happened during and after occupational conflict; especially when the machine of war stalled and left soldiers in a foreign land. The enemy, for both sides, stopped being an opponent force and became a _person._

This fundamental shift in perspective was most evident in that, as far as anyone who saw them was concerned, Penny's babies were 'Hakkamr's babies.

It didn't matter that _that_ was a mathematical, not to mention _biological_, impossibility. Those were _his_ children. The pregnant Larouche's affection for Kote; and the Elite's protectiveness of and fondness toward her and her ever expanding waistline, was all the evidence anyone needed.

Facts were irrelevant.

Still, there were those who would find moral fault in that kind of thinking.

Amy poured herself a cup of coffee and turned to see Penny shifting her ponderous bulk, abandoning her bracelets for the dark, feathered brim of a hat trimmed in a beaded black veil. Grand-mama snapped a rebuke in French and the women bickered for a moment in their native language. Penny plopped the hat across her stomach with an expression of juvenile triumph.

"How are you feeling?" Amy asked, leaning against the counter and blowing at her coffee.

Larouche smiled broadly and rolled her eyes, "Huge," she laughed, "Like a beached whale."

Starr gave the other woman a cynical smile. Grand-mama fussed audibly with an unruly lock. The side door was pushed open and Stealth Majors 'Korid and 'Hakkamr stepped into the kitchen. They were followed by a few starched and polished bikers and a couple of neatly squared away soldiers. As the others moved off into adjoining rooms, Kote paused and stepped near, leaning to kiss the cheek Penny offered. Grand-mama Larouche smacked the top of his head with the thin comb she was using and shooed the Sangheili away in rapid-fire French.

Penny giggled at Kote's plight and the Elite snapped his mandibles playfully before moving on.

The scene was background for Amy as she watched Torsch over the rim of her coffee cup. He was talking to the bikers and soldiers as the group stood on the other side of the wide vestibule, just inside one of the converted dining areas. These were now spacious meeting rooms, each boasting a long, heavily lacquered meeting table and numerous, matching high-backed chairs.

'Korid looked _different _not decked in armor. Amy couldn't recall ever seeing him in public without the battlefield plates. Like Kote and several of the Elites milling about the house, Torsch was dressed on this evening in a highly modified monastic, robe-like garment. Numerous such items had been produced by the Sisters for the comfort of their Sangheili friends. Despite the humble nature of the attire, Torsch still managed to look strikingly masculine: wide shoulders and narrow hips; bulky, muscular frame beneath the coarse fabric of dirty gray and maroon. Amy couldn't help but notice how the color highlighted the iridescent scales across the back of his hands and the freckles dusting his snout and mandibles.

Kote joined the group and as he turned, Torsch let his eyes meet Amy's. From behind her beverage she smiled and they shared a silent glance. 'Korid smiled back though deep inside his hearts hurt. He was so confused. She was beautiful, standing there with that alpha-female gleam in her eyes, looking at him like he was perfect, in every way. And there he was...unworthy of her...and stupidly, _foolishly _in love with her.

"_Scouts have visual on military instillation,__" _Dak 'Varlemai rumbled in Sangheili, breaking into 'Korid's thoughts, _"Teams relay of master code successful. Have established contact with Ceane and North Etienne._"

The massive General lumbered, ducking through the door. He was decked in Spec Ops armor shined to a parade-ready finish, his crested helm carefully cradled so as not to mar the reflective surface. The Legion's Deacon was at his heels, a rich array of newly fashioned robes aflutter around his squat frame. Naaco, Torsch still choked at the very idea of recognizing a _slave _by name, followed a few paces behind similarly clothed in new, pressed garments.

"_Are eager to discuss,_" 'Varlemai tilted his broad, convex snout to one side thoughtfully, "_To reinforce,_" the huge Elite smiled like a shark.

'Korid gave a sharp nod, hearing the words even as his mind was elsewhere. Everything he had known had been turned on its head.

"_Two days,_" Torsch finally answered in their shared native dialect, "_At the start of that evening we shall..._discuss_ the options."_

The Stealth Major felt beyond odd giving an order to a General, but 'Varlemai had early on refused to have it another way. A capable warrior and exemplary Swordsman, Dak had even subjugated himself to 'Hakkamr because 'Korid had left the other Stealth Major in charge.

Though he would never be audacious enough to make mention, 'Varlemai knew precisely who Torsch 'Korid was, more so than the other man knew for himself.

"_For now," _Torsch continued,_ "we join these people in mourning._"

Dak gave a courteous nod and clapped his right fist to his chest in silent salutation before looking down at the Unggoy. Yipip have a nod confirming he understood the given instructions then scurried off, Naaco following behind.

Though Torsch still found Yipip disgusting he had also found himself reluctantly admitting the Deacon made a fine communications supervisor. It was rather bothersome knowing a species capable of the intellect required to organize communications, not to mention operate a terminal and decipher and pull master codes from a communications tower, was so chronically _lazy. _

Naaco had also proven himself useful. Eventually.

The slave had picked up the human languages quickly, or at least enough to understand what was being said for practical purposes. It appeared he had even mastered a tertiary and antiquated variant of the French language. _Creole, _what Grand-mama Larouch reverted to when angered, was a living, fluid language which Torsch had yet to sort out. In many ways, this caused him to look favorably upon Naaco and had led the slight boy into a position as record keeper. This was awkward at best as it was a duty which demanded a level of respect in Sangheili culture.

_That_ had been Amy's doing. 'Korid smiled to himself at the thought and looked beyond the retreating duo to see Starr refreshing her coffee, oblivious to his affectionate pursual.

As soon as their comms tower had been properly recalibrated for use, Yipip had been put to work making contact with other Elite units left on the planet and gathering as much intel by that manner as possible. Up until then, the Unggoy had been Naaco's constant companion and likely his only friend, and then the Sangheili boy had found himself alone, with nothing to do.

His life had become one of desperately seeking a place to belong.

The Elite soldiers would have nothing to do with him. Eunuchs were either completely ignored or harshly mistreated by intact males and, though 'Berovai's memory alone was enough to insure no one _touched _him, Naaco was fully aware of his place.

The slave was afraid of Penny. Gentle and caring, Larouche had never given him a reason. However, pregnant Sangheili were known to be quite volatile and Naaco would not take the chance.

He was also terrified of the monastic nuns, seeing them with the same awe and reverence the others of his kind did.

'Korid had actually found himself feeling uncharacteristic sympathy for the slave. Males of the greater castrati preferred the company of their masters, women, or others similar to themselves as a matter of physical security.

Naaco had had none of those things to hide behind.

At some point, he had decided he was safe in the general vicinity of Amy's presence. Not an unfair assessment, given how Torsch had been told their first interaction had gone and how he had observed her treatment of the boy. The slave became Amy's meek, distant shadow. For days he had followed her. It made her completely uncomfortable given it was _she _who demanded no one treat Naaco as less than a full person.

She did not want Naaco being used or mistreated on principal, but his constant following had begun to drive her mad. Torsch had had to explain part of the brutal complexity of the slave caste. Naaco had been two years of age when emasculated and, as a living example, cast into slavery in the very house of his bloodline.

He had spent thirty-six years in total docility. While Amy's desire that no one control Naaco was noble, it was also cruel. There was little hope the boy would ever know how to be anything other than completely obedient, or want something other than to be given instructions. She had not liked that, but she did appear to understand.

Starr had finally broken down and found _something _to keep Naaco occupied; something to keep him out from under her feet. It had been simple at first, something which she felt would maintain a balance between what she saw as the heartlessness of treating him as a slave and the psychological trauma of not.

Under her direction, Naaco began maintaining the record books for the complex. Eventually keeping up with all of them and creating additional ledgers as needed. From the number and ages of people down to the quantity and size of stitching needles, Naaco took responsibility for keeping accurate numbers on all things inanimate and otherwise. He knew who was where and when; and what was on hand, what was needed, and what was excess which could be traded.

He excelled to the point even the other Sangheili took notice. It made the slave genuinely happy.

He had something beneficial to do which required minimal oversight. He generally left Amy alone. All of that made _her _genuinely happy.

Across the house, in the kitchen, Amy watched as Grand-mama Larouche made sure Penny's hair would accommodate her hat at the finish of their preparations.

"Are you, um," Amy began cautiously, knowing how sensitive Penny was about her current condition, but unable to keep mounting concerns held back, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

The younger Larouche smiled and nodded, "_Oui,_" she said, "After all that's..." she choked up and took a moment to get her unruly pregnancy-emotions under control. Eventually, Penny looked down at her stomach, running her hands lovingly over her round belly, "You know, I never thought this would be me," she said softly with both sadness and joy, "This wasn't the life I had picked out for myself. I was a...and I was never going to..." she let the tangled thoughts drift off, "And then I made a huge mistake and..." she shook her head, unable to voice the last thought either, "and you let us stay with you, even though I know you knew what we were; and Kote wouldn't leave us behind; and 'Korid brought Grand-mama here; and all these people...you've all been so nice." Penny wiped a tear as it fell down her cheek, then said, "To tell the truth, it don't make sense," she shrugged with one shoulder, "You don't really know me," she added quietly.

Amy took a deep breath in the silence which lingered and watched as Penny turned a thin bracelet around her dark wrist.

What she had said was the truth. But, how much did any of them know each other; and how much of what and who they had been before really mattered _now_?

"But," Penny said with a sigh, "I guess the Almighty knows what He's doing."

Amy smiled as Sister Penelope stepped through the side door. The assemblage in the other room turned in acknowledgment of her presence and she nodded confirmation, unable to speak.

"_Sometimes_," Amy whispered to herself.

* * *

Lucinda sat on a felled log in the early evening sun. Before her was a small fire throwing thick white smoke from a shallow pit. The blaze popped and crackled as it consumed the wet kindling. Two small pan-fish simmered above the flames on a thin sheet of shale. Their flat bodies were cleaned and filleted, cavities open and exposed to the heat.

Daniel crouched at the edge of a muddy oxbow, half watching a large fish lingering near the shallow bottom of the primary river's meandering loop. He did his best to concentrate on catching his own dinner despite how enamored he was with the vision of Lucinda, arrayed like a priestess in her dress.

They were both hungry. The past several days had been spent slowly making their way down the mountain side and ever toward the city somewhere far in the distance. The pace had been leisurely, set by Lucinda who was determined to make much of the journey under her own power. Daniel did not care that they had covered so little distance in so much time.

They had slept under the stars and he had hunted and fished when the opportunities arose. It was nice to be out in the clean air after having been holed up in the musty, burned-out farmhouse during the lengthy storms. Water had been plentiful; and with Daniel greatly inactive he had been able to survive with a diminished metabolic rate. Lucinda had made use of the abandoned canned provisions. Her impaired appetite had helped her rations last.

That time had been most precious.

They had talked and talked…and talked, having found a way to connect with words even in the absence of Daniel's physical ability. When the darkened days had faded into the blackness of night, Lucinda did most of the communicating; and, in the stead of scratching his responses and questions into the floorboards or the dirt as he did during the day, Daniel had run the scarred and gnarled nubs of his fingers slowly along the delicate skin on the inside of her forearm and meticulously composed his words against her flesh.

They had had time enough to create a language of their own consisting of signs and ciphers. By the end, they could converse in the dark with almost no confusion or pause. While the storms forced them to make the forgotten abode their own, daylight had been passed roaming the confines of the farm house creating and embellishing this inaudible dialect of theirs. The nights were then spent in trial and application.

Mostly, Daniel had listened as Lucinda had spent hours answering his many questions about her culture and her upbringing. Each new inquiry had given a chance to hear her talk in depth about her life before: her schooling, her social activities, her friends and family and hopes and dreams...

An elongated shadow passed beneath the murky water drawing Daniel's attention. He carefully tensed; his body making minute adjustments as his brain picked apart and processed the integral details assessed by his keen eyes: angular frequency, actual and apparent depth, refractive index…

He broke the surface in a violent and fluid dive, plunging smoothly, snatching the fish with his jaws before arcing up to the surface. Daniel planted his feet in the pond's muddy bed and emerged with the struggling creature tangled in his mandibles. Lucinda clapped and cheered from her perch, giggling as the Sangheili climbed from the waist high water and flopped his catch onto the ground.

To her continued praise, he bowed elegantly.

This had become their preferred meal. Berries picked and carried with them in a make-shift sack of cloth accompanied the lean protein. Lucinda had exhausted her canned rations and found heartier meets and the plentiful nuts, while likely closer to what her body needed, much more difficult to consume. Upon sampling a portion of venison downed just after the storms had passed, she had cringed in pain as she tried to chew, eventually stopping to spit the food into her hand along with...

Human's teeth did not grow back, and though Lucinda had only sighed and rubbed at her jaw, Daniel knew this was perceived as yet another slight against her physique. This human female was more humble than any Sangheili woman he had ever met, but he was well aware, even if they would never admit to such vanity, a measure of beauty was a thing _all_ women desired. It was a truth he had learned as a young man: no matter how plain or exotic, young or old, females wished to be thought of as beautiful.

Daniel took the axe to his meal, striking the slick-skinned catfish on the flat of its head with the rounded side of the splitting maul. When the creature finished its trashing it went onto the shale griddle whole and the Elite folded to the ground at Lucinda's side. He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his head in her lap. The girl hummed and patted his scarred cheek.

She was more than _beautiful_ and Daniel clung to each passing moment. Despite much internal chastisement, his love for her had only increased; as did his dread for the day when he would return her to her own kind and find himself without her.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

_Torsch opened his eyes and the girl froze. He struggled against the fog and cobwebs of coma which overflowed his brain, recognizing some of his surroundings._

_ He was...home? _

_The sight of the small child thoroughly confused his attempts to orient himself in space and time. She clung to the side of the bed unmoving as Torsch tried to mentally pull himself from sustained unconsciousness. She was tiny, with honey-colored skin, and she wore the robes of a child of a ruler's house. The tip of her little pink tongue stuck out from between her mandibles in concentration and her thin arm was reaching as she had paused full-stretch in an effort to...touch him?_

_Torsch surveilled the evidence and easily surmised her intent as she remained still as a statue in hesitation at being caught. Then, instead of conducting herself as appropriately terrified as Torsch eyed her with growing indignation, the girl smiled mischievously and tagged her tiny, manicured fingertips against his unbandaged bicep._

_Behind her, from just beyond the doorway, the other children gasped in horror and 'Korid spied a glimpse of them clamoring over one another as they rushed to disappear down the hall. Mother had clearly taught the young of her house the consequence of being discovered in their juvenile gaming. While this girl..._Nomi's child_, she had to be. Yes, this girl with smiling orange eyes, had _clearly_ been raised in some _other _keep: in a foreign state, spoiled as the only and late-in-life daughter of an aged territory's lord. She did not seem to have the slightest consideration for _consequences_. _

_Well, to the hells with how Nomi and her husband _carelessly_ raised their child! _

_For her to approach, let alone presume to _touch _him was insulting. It was his legally sanctioned right to maim and _kill_ the girl for her mockery...her intrusion upon his privacy...her disregard for the dignity of his person! _

_Having worked himself silently up into a righteous outrage,Torsch flexed his mandibles into a sneer to bear his fangs with a deadly snarl. So he thought. In his condition, numb but somehow aching, brain still fuzzy and not quite reconnected to his body, he managed only to twitch his lips into an awkward grimace while making a less than fearsome gurgling sound. _

_To this, Coh flashed an ecstatic grin and finished scaling the bedside as if she were a small, nimble primate. He seethed and spittle frothed from between his teeth to slide oafishly down the side of his face. Still, she crawled and half-hopped, giggling her way toward him. To Torsch's absolute mortification the child plopped herself happily next to his pillowed head and gazed with an innocent smile directly into his face. _

_His mandibles drooped. _

_He did not know what to do with this. _

_A fearless little girl was an oddity. For a few moments, Torsch blinked perplexidly as she looked down at him without the slightest hint of concern. He found himself increasingly uncertain if he was in fact alive or if he had died and this was some manner of hell he had been unaware of. _

_She cocked her head curiously...then reached and patted the top of his head as she would a beloved dog. _

_Torsch felt very alive as his temper flared._

_His body was not up to his anger's ambition and protested fiercely as if paralyzed. He did not heed the warning. Instead, thinking to reach up and _strangle_ her, Torsch jerked against the lack of control and coordination. _

_It felt as if molten hot fire was poured across every cell. Incompletely synthesized tissue ripped apart beneath regenerative bandages and his lungs seized as a searing blanket of pain enveloped him in its smoldering embrace. Injured muscles went into agonizing spasms pulling painfully against deep bruising, ruptured tendons, and fractured bones. The anesthetic quality of the coverings was insufficient to manage the deluge of pain and Torsch thought he saw the gods as a blackened corona closed in on his vision. His body felt damaged _everywhere _and he_ _snarled in agony as he tried to settled himself back against the bedding and maintain consciousness. He slowly and carefully writhed, trying to find that place where he had not known such pain was possible; and the girl...giggled. _

_Through his agony Torsch's anger was violently rekindled. It was left to sputter and smolder in impotence as his body reminded him there was not a way to go about a functional fit of rage in his state. While he choked on his fury, Coh grinned like an imp and sprang gleefully from the bed with silly, joyous laughter. Torsch watched, mandibles churning, as she disappeared through his bedroom door in a little girl sized flurry of purple and red robes._

_Then, as the sound of her pattering feet faded down the hall, he smiled despite himself as he heard her shouting, "Momma! Grandma 'Korid! Uncle Torsch is awake!"_

Amy saw the distance in his eyes and touched his cheek.

'Korid blinked and found himself standing in the outer hall of the infirmary. Amy was there as well as his file. Penny, Grand-mama Larouche, Father Bradshaw, and a handful of nuns milled nearby.

"Are you okay?" Starr asked quietly, letting her hand fall to the collar of his robe.

He nodded, twitching his muzzle with a sniff, "Yes," he grunted, clearing his throat and returning her soft smile.

Amy shifted the small bouquet of hearty, drab colored flowers in her hand and picked a lent fluff from the collar of his robe. She felt him watching her as she neatened the thick, stark-white sash draped across his shoulders. It was a bereavement shawl and, in his culture, announce that a house was grieving. It signified the wearer as the family's principal mourner, a place of honor customarily held by the deceased's closest living relative. For a son, it was his mother or an aunt or sister. For a daughter, is was her father or an uncle or a brother. For an orphaned human infant, it was the Elite who couldn't stand the idea of her dying without a proper name; the man who in her last hours had rocked her and sang to her; the man who was holding her the moment her body finally gave out and she took her last breath.

Amy had seen and learned a lot of things in the day previous which only confirmed that, for all their differences, Sangheili and humans were more alike than not in some ways. They shared an inherent emotional need to grieve and had developed intricate cultural practices to express feelings of loss in death. Perhaps it was respect for 'Korid, or maybe it was the need to mourn in a way which made sense to them; but whatever it was, the Elites had needed no encouragement to partake of their societal conventions, and their human counterparts, civilian and military, had readily provided what they needed and helped where they could. For many of them, this was the first time since it all began that death could be revered instead of handled like a mass biological contamination incident.

In keeping with Sangheli custom, the windows of the main house had been painted over with a paste made of ash. Amy had learned that where a ceremonial spear would bar the main entry door to indicate the death of a warrior, a wreath of flowers had been placed for the loss of a child. There was a whole detailed and specific list of ways in which one proceeded to outwardly mourn and the way in which the dead were deposed, all depending on a lot of factors. It mattered whether one was young or old; disgraced or honored; civilian or military; slave, servant, commoner or Aristocrat; political, military, or religious leader, these things influenced how and what was done.

Though the Elites maintained much of their overly-macho veneer, it was obvious what was happening here was more than simply joining their former enemies in grief in confirmation of an unspoken alliance. This had been a child for which Torsch had cared more than he let on and they were not going to let her go unmourned by them simply because she was human. For all the meaning Amy would have taken from that gesture alone, a part of her knew these were defining moments: a point of no return, though she couldn't pinpoint how.

Amy followed 'Korid when he stepped into the main ward of the infirmary. The others entered after and when they were assembled, Father Bradshaw said a quiet prayer. With way more ceremony than was physically necessary, Eeth and N'Rule lifted the tiny casket and placed it on Torsch's shoulder. As the principal mourner, it was his duty to escort the deceased.

He wrapped his arm easily around the tiny carapace, balancing the small burden and looking to Father Bradshaw. The withered cleric nodded slowly and led the procession toward the entry door.

Kote opened the double doors and between the infirmary and the chapel, across the trampled and muddy courtyard, every resident of the complex who could was in attendance that chilly evening. While the children held small bunches of flowers, the adults held candles causing a sea of glistening light to dance across the darkened stretch of yard.

At the head of the stairs, Amy took her place at Torsch's side, holding her bouquet like a bride as she slipped her free hand into his. They ascended the steps and Grand-mama's sultry voice rose to float across the air. The somber hymn was projected with passion in her native Cajun-French dialect and the formal procession began toward the cemetery. As they walked along, the children ran ahead and dropped or tossed their flowers in the path and by the time they reached the graveside, hundreds of voice had joined in and filled the evening with mournful song. The Freedom Guard Riders stood ready, holding the ends of unfurreled nylon straps. 'Korid placed the casket on the rigging and Father Bradshaw intoned the Committal Right as it was gently lowered into the ground. When the final words had been said, Amy stepped forward and tossed her bouquet into the grave.

From somewhere in the back there was a good old-fashioned creole whoop and many of the mourners broke out in joyful song. Torsch flinched, slowly cocking his head and looking down at Amy with dawning amused half-puzzlement.

She wasn't sure how long they stood there, but eventually the singing faded and gave way to silence as the crowd dispersed, having run out of condolences. Amy squeezed 'Korid's hand and smiled up at him.

"Thank you," he managed to say softy, right before his file jumped him.

The men snarled and barked at each other with male bravado, wrestling and mock-scuffling for a few moments. Amy laughed brightly and giggled childishly in protest when N'Rule snatched her up and flopped her over his shoulder then danced around in a circle. He set her on her feet and she stumbled and clung onto Torsch.

Kote growled, grabbing N'Rule and Eeth. He wrapped an arm each around their necks, holding the junior file members in the Sangheili equivalent of a headlock, "You two make sure he sends her off properly," he snarled, his smile all sharp, pearly-white fangs.

Amy gave Torsch a dubious look and he ruefully shook his head.

"Yes?" 'Hakkamr barked, shaking N'Rule and Eeth.

Laughing, with their necks still pinned, the men bumped their chests with their fists and rancorously gave the salutatory bark.

"I trust that means 'yes'," Penny said. She waddled up to the group with great effort, hands braced against her back and Kote scowled, releasing his file-mates. As he stepped to her, Grand-mama approached pushing a wheel-chair.

"You should not be..." 'Hakkamr began.

"Oh, hush," Penny interrupted playfully, offering him her hand. He helped her into the chair, pausing to caress and mummer to her burgeoning middle. "Now, if you'll excuse me," Penny said with a yawn, "some of us are sleeping for three these days." Grand-mama stepped aside and as Kote took command of the chair, Penny gave everyone a princess-perfect wave.

There was laughter and cordial goodbyes and goodnights, and a few more people paused in the interim to offer condolences. Then, Eeth and N'Rule eyed Torsch with such seriousness Amy had to laugh, "Okay, what's going on?" she asked.

The Elites exchanged glances and N'Rule growled, "Now, we grieve her death the way warriors do."

* * *

**Outskirts of Caddo County**

"And, see that bright, not-quite-round-ish one over there," Lucinda asked.

She lay on her back, pointing overhead and slightly to the east, as if the firmament, their small window into infinance, could be narrowed with the gesture. Daniel grunted in response. It was a deep, curt sound which she had come to know meant 'yes'.

Lucinda used the Elite's stomach as a pillow while the fur cushioned them against the itchy grass. Above, the sky was a slowly darkening display as day drained into the westerly horizon and stars winked to life in the east. Daniel was sprawled, head resting on the folded stump of his arm as he watched the girl point. He listened happily as she continued to contentedly regale him with elementary human astrological information.

"That's _Cor Caroi_," she said, "The King's Heart. It's only two stars, they're stuck in each other's gravity fields," Lucinda rolled her head to see Daniel looking at her and not the sky. She smiled shyly, cheeks pinkening as she reached and turned his face to the stars, "And that other bright dot," she pointed again, holding his lower mandibles so he had to look, "with those two smaller, lighter ones kind of close, like triangle shape," she paused and felt the Sangheili smile. He then grunted that he was following along.

"That's _Le Petite L__é__on_, or...some of him," she said, "It's kind of his _behind_, he doesn't really have a face," the long-standing physical ambiguity of the subjects of star pictures struck her and Lucinda scrunched up her nose, "We call him _Felis." _

Named for a star pattern long removed from the charts of Earth, Felis and his tail were as recognizable to the people of Ambrosia II as Orion and his belt were to those on Earth._ "_He's a lion cub...see those stars going up and up, those are his tail," she was pointing directly overhead, her arm sweeping the sky until she suddenly dropped it and cradled her hand against her chest, speaking softly, "Sister Maxine said, if we ever found ourselves with no navigation systems, we could use that star there, the reddish one where his paw is catching the end of his tail, as a pole star, like a compass..."

She quieted, realizing how important the once inane information passed on by a handsomly grizzled old science teacher likely was now. Life was forever going to be very different, even when they found other people.

"Do they name the stars where you come from?" Lucinda suddenly asked, needing to change the subject.

She rolled partly onto her side and when he reached for her she reflexively reached back. For the slightest of moments eye contact held in the darkened dusk; then, he began to trace his fingers along her soft skin. The corners of her mouth curled into a shy smile and she looked away as he made the elegant movements in composition against her inner forearm.

Daniel spelled out slowly, _'Buotqen Pu Ossa.'_

Lucinda scrunched up her nose and gave him a confused look. He chuckled then translated, 'Gate of the Gods.'

A delighted smile lit up her face and, as she nestled against him, Daniel closed his eyes and remembered the ancient and classical constellations of Sanghelos.

'There is _Driro, _The Musician,' he wrote, 'The Three Sisters, and The Sword of Zakee.'

These were the major star groups of his home hemisphere. Being able to orient one's self using the position of constellations and determine direction of travel by following their movement across the sky was a skill Sangheili had been teaching their children for eons. Though an obsolete practice in modern times, for a once planet-bound maritime race such knowledge had been a matter of life and death, wealth and commerce, war and power. After the species had become significantly space-faring their heavenly map had expanded and celestial bodies became landmarks of an interstellar magnitude. Still, the ability to preform terrestrial computations independent of technological assistance was considered a refined and high-born skill.

Daniel had been so privileged. Though ostensibly raised on equal footing with sons of the state his same age, his mother had been one of the Kaidon's concubines. As a child of the ruler's harem, Daniel had grown up in the Keep's mansion and from the day he had emerged into the world he had been raised and tutored to become a warrior. Mother had been just one of many harem girls but her position left her situated so as to see to it her sons were provided a mentor in the years _before_ official childhood training.

For Daniel, that mentor had been Kie. A retired, gelded soldier, a member of the lesser castrati by self inflicted choice, Kei had taught all of Mother's sons how to read the sky and...

The truth was an ugly thing and it came when it pleased with no consideration for the havoc its appearance could wreak.

Daniel struggled to remember to breathe. He had not contemplated the night's sky in detail since he had been a boy. Looking at it now his hearts filled with a sense of fresh discovery. He was eight months old again, standing on the rail of the harem balcony high above the Keep. Kei's sturdy, muscular arm was holding him so he would not fall and the stars of Sanghelios glittered by the millions overhead. The older Sangheili pointed out the constellations with great patience and the night smelled of the saltiness of the nearby ocean and the faint musk of old warrior. Mother had been there also.

A thousand memories came together into a single picture. A glance from Mother to Kei; a brush of manicured fingers against the man's arm; the way they smiled at one another; how he gave to her freely all his little personal time, that he raised her sons as his own just as a husband is expected to.

Daniel's hearts skipped in his chest and he suddenly felt ill at the implications.

The men of Berov were taught to show no mercy, hold nor regard, and feel no affection for women. They were tools, necessary for furthering the bloodline and _little _more. But Kei...

Kei had _loved_ Mother. _Merciful Ancestors_, how had Daniel never realized before how awful the plain truth was. Mother had once been Kei's _wife_. The Kaidon Therau had not just exercised his right to breed with a married woman but he had stolen her, taken her as part of a Kaidon's domain in immanence and kept her as a common whore and Kei... Kei had maimed himself, as was required to take up rank as a harem guard, just to be near his own wife. He had helped raise her sons: sons which he could never give her...sons sired by...

A sense of terminal loss snaked in and coiled around Daniel's hearts.

He had always wished Kei had been his father, just as he and everyone else had always known Therau 'Berovai was. As a child Daniel had pretended it was not so, but every time had caught his own reflection he had seen Therau looking back. For this he had hated his Kadon and, when confirmed, proceeded to become _just like him_. How many young brides had Daniel taken from their husbands?

Kei had tried to raise him up as something better, but the man's compassion and goodness could not overcome the blood of Berov.

A tear slid down Daniel's cheek and tracked along a scarred trench in the side of his face. He tried to tell himself he was not that man anymore, _that man was dead, _but a bitter voice inside spoke the foolishness of such a contention. It was far too late for regrets. He could change who he was but he could _never_ change who he _had been._ While his spirit found some sense of redemption the rest of him remained thoroughly damned.

'I was not a good man,' he said, composing his words slowly against Lucinda's skin.

She was startled by this peculiar confession, and her heart thumped an extra beat when she spied him reaching up discretely to wipe his cheek with a gnarled knuckle, "_Daniel,_" she said barely above a whisper, reaching to touch his face.

He shook his head and silently begged a few moments to compose himself before signing to her, 'I deserved to die in disgrace and in ignorance,' he said, 'but, you let me live to see that I was wrong.'

For thousands of generations, the sons of Berov had hated and misused women. Why? Because of what Herra had done? She had manipulated an old man, yes, and had watched the empire burn, true, but she had _earned_ it. The sin had not been that Odura loved her so greatly, but because he loved power even more. The Kaidon had _used _her_, _used the woman he supposedly _loved _as a political pawn... just as Daniel had used every person in his previous life he had ever claimed to care a wit about.

The feeling which welled inside was akin to panic. He could not go off into exile and die never having said the words, not when he finally understood what they truly meant. Before he could stop himself, Daniel took her arm and said, 'I am yours. Until the moment I die, all that I could have been and never was will always be yours.' Tears fell from his eyes and he did not stop to catch them, 'You saved me and I only wish I had more than what remains of myself to give you.'

Like his previous declaration, this all struck her as odd and a bit frightening. Lucinda managed to sit up and forced a concerned smile as she whispered, "I don't...understand," she stammered, "You're more than enough and besides...you saved _me_," she insisted, "I never would have gotten away if you hadn't..."

She paused when Daniel began laughing softly. The sound rose from a small bodily tremor accompanied by a deep chuckle to a bellowing laugh that shook his body. Tears of anguish became tears of merriment and Lucinda looked down at him thinking he had gone crazy, a tiny smile pulling at her mouth.

"Why's that funny?" she asked, cupping a hand over her lips and covering her giggle politely.

The mute Sangheili struggled to get his breathing under control from around subsiding laughter. He snorted and coughed and smiled that jagged, toothy smile as he wiggled to sit up. Folding his long legs awkwardly, Daniel looked down at her, wiping at his face with his stump and cupping her cheek with his hand. Lucinda smiled brightly up at him and his palm trailed its warmth from the side of her face, down her neck, across the swell of her bare shoulder to fall the length of her arm.

Daniel took her hand and Lucinda's cheeks burned when he gallantly brought her fingers to his mouth to kiss them. She glared at him playfully and shook off the tingly feeling, having grown use to the idea that he enjoyed embarrassing her like that. He accepted her eagerly when she moved to sit in his lap and snuggle against his chest.

For a moment, the Sangheili simply held her, feeling the warmth of her body bleed into his and watching the light dance in her eye. Then, just that quickly, as he walked his fingers across her arm, he broke the spell he had been living under since the moment she came into his life.

'There are no words to express how I will miss you,' he said.

In the moonlight, the dark arch of a brow slanted, furrowing against the angle of cloth obscuring her missing eye. Lucinda chuckled uncomfortably, "Miss me?" she repeated, "Why would you miss me? I'm not going anywhere."

He stared down at her, insides slowly beginning to churn. She was so innocent, so naive.

'You...' he tried, unable to find the words as concern built in her expression, 'We discussed this,' he said, failing to pick words which would not seem defensive, hearts hurting at the thought, 'I am taking you to your people.'

For a moment, she stared up at him with a look of confusion.

Then, her expression shifted. The moment his meaning resonated it was as if the light he had see in her from the beginning was snuffed out. The dark pool of her eye filled with tears and she shook her head violently, shoving away from him, "_No_," she said in a broken whisper.

Daniel bowed his head as she slipped from his arms.

_He was just a disgraced man and she was... she did not belong with him. Exile was what he deserved, he knew that, was prepared for it as best he could be but_...

He sighed heavily. He had gotten so caught up in his own feelings a part of him had forgotten that she was not Sangheili.

_Of course she did not understand._

Daniel brushed his fingers along her arm, 'Even if your people should forgive mine for what we have done...' there was a pause as Lucinda shook her head, not wanting to accept it. The Elite snorted in frustration then said, 'I am unworthy to...'

"Don't say that!"

She screamed at him, her voice carrying ghostily across the open field. Embarrassed, Lucinda bit down on her lip, looking away in apology and misery. She couldn't help it. Panic and heartbreak and helplessness chased each other in her chest making her feel dizzy. Daniel sat frozen, clearly surprised at her outburst as he watched her with wide eyes.

'It is...' he began. Angrily, she jerked her arm away from him, cutting of the line of their night-time communication.

She didn't want him talking about how he was _unworthy. _He had saved her life and been good to her. Had his torture not been enough on its own for whatever he had done? First, she had had to convince him he deserved a _name _and now he was talking as if he somehow wasn't good enough to be with other people so he was going to...

Lucinda broke down and sobbed and, despite the uselessness of the gesture, clamped her hands over her ears, "No," she cried, shaking her head.

He reached for her gently, desperate to explain, but the moment his fingertips touched her she broke. She wailed and swatted his hand away, smacking his arm as hard as she could with a small fist. It would leave a bruise on her knuckles for days to come but she didn't feel it then, "You're just going to _leave me_?" she screamed out in misery.

He snorted and reached for her again, wanting to talk her down, to calm her upset.

Lucinda pushed away his arm and shoved at his chest, "Then _leave_!" she shrieked, "If you're going to leave me then just go!"

Daniel made a rude noise, half snarling and half snorting, grappling with and easily overpowering her. She was inconsolable and bawled as he twisted her up against him. Lucinda struggled for a few more moments, trying to free herself from his embrace before she went limp in defeat.

She hung there in his arms and wept at the unfairness of it all. Everyone she had known and loved was gone. She had watched people die horrible deaths. She had been brutalized and starved; left crippled and half blind and barely able to eat. An _adult _couldn't hope to have the coping mechanisms to deal with what she had lived through and she was just a _teenage girl_. She _loved _him, she needed him and now he was... after he had saved her from that hell, claimed she saved him, after they had held each other and cried together... after all the times she had caught him looking at her and the ways he had treated her as if...

Lucinda sobbed again, quietly this time with the bulk of her heartache exhausted. She felt like a stupidly lovesick little girl.

Slowly, when she had calmed and he was certain she would not hurt herself in a fit, Daniel let her slip from his arms again. She slapped his hand away when he made to speak and lay herself down on the edge of the fur with her back to him, scooting so that they were in no way touching. He looked down at her and was painfully aware that it was the first time since she had come into his life she refused to look at or touch him. The loss of her affection swelled in his chest like fire and he felt helpless at the knowledge he could not force her to understand. The only good thing he had in life had closed him out. She was there but already gone and the emotional agony of her sudden absence made him long for the days and nights of physical torment.

Submitting to her rejection, Daniel lay down carefully so as not to disturb her and listened with a growing sense of his true powerlessness as she quietly cried herself to sleep.

* * *

**Highway 289, just outside of New Saint Etienne**

Everything outside the city had begun to look completely abandoned. The earth moved on, it didn't care about humans or aliens or their squabbles. It had better things to do. The darkened landscape was windswept craters and new vegetation, ash and creeping vines, burned trees and fresh growth. Abandoned roadways, buildings, vehicles and equipment were slowly being pushed aside or consumed. In the space of seven short weeks, native grasses had even begun sprouting from cracks in the unused portions of the highway. Roots and reaching tendrils tore up asphalt up as the noxious, aggressive plant-life of Ambrosia II reared up unbridled by UEG Botanical Service intervention. Even in the dark of early night, vines could be seen attempting to ascend the large Covenant ships downed close by.

A small civilian truck plodded along, headlights wobbling in the darkness as it headed eastbound on the westbound lane of the once major highway. The vehicle moved at a careful and practiced pace, avoiding roadway obstacles too large or too time-consuming to have been worth moving. The shoulder which rolled past was littered with cars and small civilian vehicles long sense stripped of parts, shoved aside, and left to rust.

Donnovan Jones was seated in the bed of the truck with the remainder of the Caddo Rebel Fighters. He adjusted the rifle in his grasp and removed the mint flavored toothpick from between chapped and peeling lips. He pointed the thin green stick at a bound Hagart and said, "Make you a deal, old man."

Hagart didn't bother looking up.

Jones sucked his cheeks and leaned in conspiratorially, "You tell me all that stuff you held out from Ashmund," Donnovan patted his rifle like a good dog, "and maybe I'll give you yours in the head instead of the legs; make sure them Brutes don't have too much fun playing with ya'."

Hagart didn't respond and the other man chuckled darkly, giving a full displaying of his rotten teeth in the moonlight, "Suit yourself."

The truck slowed and crawled off the main thoroughfare and down an overgrown path. The men riding in the back were jostled about as the headlights bounced along catching the tall dry-grass in creepy illumination and throwing jumpy shadows all around. The rippled, dune-like earth leveled off and brakes squealed as the vehicle was turned in an easy circle facing back the way it had come before rolling to a stop.

Jones dismounted the truck, stepping over the tailgate and onto the rear bumper. He pulled the latch. As the three remaining Caddo Rebel Fighters struggled to the ground the driver leaned from his open window and called out mockingly, "Here kitty-kitties...we brought you some vittles..."

Both men laughed and Donnovan shook his head, toothpick between his teeth as he grinned. The three condemned men struggled against their bindings as they were urged into the blackness beyond. A breeze kicked up, whipping sand and the faint stench of rot and death into the air. Beneath everyone's feet, shattered bits of bone crunched in a thick layer as they shuffled along, testament to just how many people Ashmund had gotten rid of this way. Hagart looked down in time to see a broken human skull caught in Jones' rifle light.

Donnovan signaled for the hobbled and tied men to stop then took lazy, low aim at Hagart, "Last chance, old timer."

The other man raised his chin with a tight frown.

Donnovan snorted, "Alright," he swung the long gun to the others, "What about you, Lance? Feel like sparing yourself some mean suffering? I hear Brutes have themselves a _mighty strong_ fondness for torture. They say it makes the meat _sweeter_."

Lance's mouth quivered but he shook his head.

Jones tisked sadly, turning the rifle to the next man, "And you, Charlie? How about you..."

The question trailed off and Donnovan slowly turned to follow as a quicksilver ripple barely caught the corner of his eye. It was faint, like a mirage which danced on hot, distant blacktop. Only, it wasn't distant. Before he could utter a peep, the rifle was wrenched out of Donnovan's hands, the stock slammed across his cheek, and the weapon sent sailing out into the night. As Jones struggled to remain upright, his head ringing and his jaw aching, stumbling and half falling as his vision blurred, an iron blow knocked all the air out of him and sent him sprawling like a rag doll onto his back.

The three bound men took careful steps away and tried to hunker together. As they helplessly looked on, Donnovan struggled to catch his breath, choking and sputtering. He flailed backwards in the sand like a lame crab, his limbs disjointed in fear.

"Robby!" Jones managed to croak, the searing pain of fear gripping his chest as he crumpled into the sand and curled into a ball with his arms over his head.

The other man stepped from the truck with an annoyed curse, lugging a Covenant rifle from the seat beside him, "Christ, Donny, do I gotta' hold your hand to do everyth..."

His words died with a sharp _crunch_ as an unseen force hit the side of his head. The rifle tumbled to the sand as blood and spittle and teeth were sent in a spray onto the truck's rear side window. Robby's body was turned violently with the force of the impact, bones audibly snapping as he slammed into the side of the truck then crumpled to the ground next to his weapon like dead weight.

There was silence.

Lance shivered, sucking air through trembling lips as the three Caddo Rebel Fighters looked all around.

The wind howled.

Donnovan Jones whimpered.

There was a rustle nearby.

A hiss and a pop set off a chorus of similar sounds and all around them wavering veils of active camouflage ripped apart and melted to the feet of Elites. Near the truck, one toed Robby then leaned down and turned the man's head in the soft beam of personal armor lighting. The left side of Robby's face was smashed like a melon and his neck flopped, offering no resistance. The Elite grunted and Hagart could have sworn a mechanical voice translated the utterance as "_Oops._"

The alien soldier stood and pointed at the lifeless Robby, "I believe I hit him too hard. He is dead."

The bound humans looked on and Donnovan was lifted unceremoniously by a leg. The man still had his head covered with his arms, "Don't eat me!" He sobbed, "I'm not part of the deal!"

The Elite snorted, plates on his helmet coming unsealed and folding back away from his face. He sniffed, then dropped the sniveling human to the ground with a snarl of disgust.

The coward had urinated on himself.

Donnovan made a half-hearted attempt to scoot away and another Elite stepped forward, placing an armored, booted foot across the human's chest, mashing him into the sand and thwarting his escape.

The Sangheili peered down as Jones squirmed. When the human opened his eyes his face flashed confusion. Donnovan looked all around in disbelief at the six Spec Ops Sangheili.

They were clearly not who or _what_ he had been expecting.

The one pinning Jones with his foot cocked his head and looked down at the squirrely Donnovan. Comms crackled and gave a high-pitched hum. Hagart would have sworn he could see the Elite smile as it hissed, its comms translating in seamless English,"Yipip, it appears we have acquired General 'Varlemai's _prisoners_."

* * *

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

The sky had begun to powder with the hint of coming morn. A collection of soldiers and civilians, humans and Elites, lingered around a bonfire which had burned to embers. Sangheili did not customarily have a wake or a vigil for the departed, but what they did have was a celebration; and they had indeed sent the orphaned human girl off in true warrior fashion.

Instead of going there separate ways after the graveside service, many of the human soldiers and some civilians stayed. Personnel coming in from patrol and security duties stopped by to express their condolences and lingered for the celebratory tribute. In the absence of stories with which to remember the departed the Elites shared family battle poems and there was a recitation of, and some arguing over the words to, epic Sangheili war hymns. Humans joined in with renditions of unit song and there was some inappropriately funny singing of dirty cadences.

Each species talked of soldierly things, of firefights and skirmishes, and of the family they had left behind. They spoke of loved ones lost and of the friendships and camaraderie of service. There was wine and rum; a lot of laughter and many moments of silence.

The suns were just peeking over the horizon when it came time to bring the memorium to a close. N'Rule stood and raised his glass and those remaining returned the gesture.

"To honor," the Elite gave the parting salutation in toast.

"In life and in death," the others vehemently echoed before all downed what was left of their drinks.

As a race, the Sangheili weren't big drinkers. They enjoyed a good alcohol but only in strict moderation. There were, of course, exceptions; and, as was customary at a funerary celebration, Eeth and N'Rule had managed to get the mourner-in-chief _completely_ shit faced.

The two were grinning as if they were supremely proud of themselves as they manhandled Torsch to his room. They had to half carry/half drag, and partially shove, their highly intoxicated file leader up the stairs. Amy supervised the ordeal and eventually saw Torsch safely deposited into his personal quarters.

'Korid was drunkenly docile and carefully waded through his inebriation to prop himself against a wall. The guilty parties were barely able to contain their snickering as they slunk away. Amy closed the door and shook her head as she turned to see Torsch focused intently on the art of remaining on his feet. With an amused, tired sigh, Amy crossed the room to him.

She felt him watching her. His murky gaze followed her as she pulled the shawl from his shoulders and neatly folded the ivory swatch of cloth. He watched in silence as she placed the shawl on the side table before moving to help him out of the heavy robe. A tiny smile played at his mandibles as they both struggled with the heavy outer garment, each trying to contain laughter as Torsch bumbled up a rather simple task in uncoordinated drunkenness.

After stumbling a few times around the room, giggling at one another, Starr was eventually able to guide him to his bed. 'Korid promptly collapsed onto the neatly arranged pallet of sheets and blankets, pulling her along with him.

They lay there with the light of morning brightening against the ash-darkened window and Amy snuggled, still fully dressed, against him. His hearts beat out their synchronous, liquid-mechanical rhythm. There was the sound of his ever deepening, slowly drifting breaths; and the soft, grinding trill of...

Amy sat up and gave him a playfully hard look. He didn't even bother to open his eyes but still smiled like a cat.

"Are you...purring?" she asked with a laugh.

He scratched his scarred shoulder and squirmed, grabbing her and pulling her against his chest as he tugged a blanket over them, "Silence, _woman_."


	18. Chapter 18

**WARNING: **Yes, another lemon. A short lemon for your lemony pleasure. Why? Because I CAN. Bawhawhawhaw! Oh, and it furthers the story-line, of course. ;)

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

Amy rolled over and stretched lazily, smiling as she scooched up next to 'Korid to rest her head against his arm as if it were a pillow. This was the first time she had woken in his bed to find him still in it. Usually, he was up after only a few hours of rest, Sangheili needing far less sleep than humans. But, this late afternoon he was sprawled across the bedding still lightly snoring, smelling of sex and alcohol. Starr cuddled into his warmth and yawned. Torsch grunted lightly, mandibles twitching as he grumbled dreamily. The two lay in a jumble of knotted and twisted bedding, both partially covered in the warm, early evening light which fell through the ash crusted window above.

With a lazy groan of contentment, Amy stretched herself alongside her Sangheili lover, her body aching and protesting the abuse of spending so many of her recent nights on a floor, among other things. Torsch mumbled incoherently and snorted, his nostrils flexing as he shifted and tugged at a blanket tangled around one leg. With a growl of irritation he gave up, his body going lax as he resumed the peaceful breathing of sleep, a deep laborious snore slowly rattling up from his chest.

Laughing quietly, Amy slid her hand across his bare stomach, earning her an irritated bodily twitch. Undeterred, she slowly walked her fingers up the center of 'Korid's chest, the digits prancing along the line of heavily scarred flesh. Torsch drew in a deep breath, his mandibles flaring wide, his lips drawn back to display rows of conical fangs. He snapped his jaws and ground his teeth and moved into a slow stretch of his own before grunting childishly and rolling over onto his stomach. Starr chased him, laying herself prone across his scarred back and kissing his neck. He snorted in mock protest and as she continued she could feel the jerking rise and fall of his upper body beneath her as he unsuccessfully fought not to laugh.

'Korid rolled over and Amy slid from his shoulders across the expanse of his back to see him throw a blanket over his head. She laughed merrily and dove under the covers with him to kiss at the side of his downturned head.

"_Woman_," he groused playfully, completing his under-blanket barrel-roll to snatch her up against his chest.

Now they were hopelessly tangled but it didn't matter to either of them. He found her mouth with his and she arched into him. Many hours of a day completely lost to any sibilance of productivity had been spent right there, reveling in the intimacy of one another. It had been more than sloppy, drunken, slowly sobering love making. Though there had been plenty of that. There had also been tearful, heartbroken discussions. The stories from their lives never told to anyone else. How Amy had both loved and hated her home on Earth, a safe haven which had come too late to save her from the agony of hating herself. She talked openly about how her teenage years had been full of self-imposed loneliness, of seeing her mother in every boy-crazy school girl and Todd in every unknowing, poor sap of a teenage oaf who tried hitting on her. She had left the family who had tried to be good to her, though on amicable terms, and joined the Army to feel some kind of connection to her father. She was practically drowning in a career until the day Allan had swept in like a hurricane. He had been there when her grandparents had died but when it came to her real self Amy hadn't shared more than that. When their relationship fell apart she reverted back to a man-hating shrew and sank into seclusion. From Torsch, ther had been stories about the time following his injury when he had been home. Of Coh setting a gilded warrior's burial urn on his bed and declaring that grandmother 'Korid had picked the wrong one because he was too big to fit in it; of telling his sister she was interrupting their thinking time as they played with aurums; of his sisters chastising him for openly showing the small child favor. It made Amy's heart hurt for him. He had loved Coh and she had loved him. Starr ached at the realization that he still had family out there somewhere who loved him and missed him and she had…

Fighting back a swell of emotion, Amy tightened her arms around Torsch's neck and pulled him over on top of her. There was wordless, mutual struggled against meddlesome bedding until he found alignment and entered her with one powerful thrust.

Starr craned back and breathlessly panted his name over and over again as he rode her hard to her fulfillment. When she came down from the apex he shifted and they rolled mindlessly across the pallet and spilled out onto the bare floor. Amy took position atop him and found the slow, sensual rhythm she knew he preferred. Torsch arched his shoulders as she pushed him into oblivion. They had found a middle ground with one another's sexual misgivings. Not too rough and not too gentle; she no longer feared and he no longer worried afterwards.

Both complete, Amy rolled forward and slinked up 'Korid's chest, feeling as if their skin melted together when she settled against him. He held her, their hearts pounding a variable rhythm as he looked unseeing up at the ceiling and let his palm travel her naked back. Amy propped herself up on her elbows and watched his eyes in the silence. His jet irises jerked ever slightly as he saw some unknown scene play out in his mind, their bright purple muscular rings alternately constricting and relaxing. She reached and touched the freckled curve of his snout, letting the pads of her fingers travel across the soft skin. His eyes flicked to her and, seeing the deeply affectionate look therein, he smiled softly.

"Would you go back?" she asked quietly.

He startled at the question and his brow ridges furrowed, "What?"

"Would you…" she swallowed hard and pushed to let herself slide from his chest, laying at his side and holding him tightly, "Would you go back, if the Covenant came for all of you?"

He blinked at her, studying her face as an increasingly wan expression tugged at his features, "They will not return for us," he said like a man speaking to a child.

It was the truth. In order for such a thing to happen the Hierarchs would have to send a recon team, but before that they would have to know the Jiralhanae coup to take the legion, to exterminate the Sangheili members, had been at least in part a failure. It was unlikely in the wake of Thel 'Vadam's infamous sentencing any would dare make mention of_ failings_. No. Even if what was left of the Jiralhanae who had escaped with legion vessels made it to High Charity they would report ultimate success though sustaining heavy losses. Some would likely be executed for losing a lower Prophet.

The look in her eyes said he had missed the point of the question altogether and his insides coiled tightly at the very idea of what he saw in those depths.

"No," he said quietly, "I would not go back." Torsch gently brushed a strand of hair from Amy's cheek and pulled her against him more tightly, "There is nothing there for me except memories and regret."

Starr propped her chin against the scarred side of his brawny chest, "It wasn't your fault," she said in answer to the unspoken.

'Korid shook his head, "I know," he rumbled.

They lay there for a few moments and a smiled broke across his face, "Her wit, gods that child had a fast mind. Had she lived she would have been…" he paused, the common saying of Berov being a backhanded compliment, but also appropriate, "a women with whom a man should not reckon." He laughed quietly to himself, "When word was sent out that I was making a recovery, her father had extended an invitation for me to accompany Nomi and Coh on their return to Garen Keep. I was to join his house and hold an esteemed position among the uncles of Garen. Coh could not have been more excited at the prospect of having me teach her during the first years of her upcoming childhood training."

_Oh, God, _Amy thought, realizing why he blamed himself for her death, why he felt he should have been there.

"But, it did not happen that way," he said in a wistful, far off voice, "She was so very disappointed."

It hit her then and Amy felt as if her heart would burst with love for him, "You never wanted the Star of Apotheos," she whispered.

He sighed and shook his head, "No. What I wanted…" realization sank into his mind like a dagger.

_She knew. _

Grief overwhelmed rage. It was true enough that he had not wanted commendation. He had not wanted the type of attention it brought and for the first time in his life since it had been all but forced upon him he had had the luxury of not acknowledging the reality of his existence but there it was, tangled up in her words. Oh, gods, he had believed Amy did not care about those things but _she had known. _

The pain of inexorable awareness, tinged with the icy sting of betrayal, sliced through his chest. With as much composure as he could muster, 'Korid detangled from the blankets and removed himself from Amy's side. He felt ill, like he might become physically sick at the depth of his foolishness. She did not care about him. This had all been a _lie. _He was just a decorated warrior for her to fool around with for _sport_.

As flattering as that should have been it was never what he wanted. He had had his share of being used. He thought she actually cared about him and not some damned commendation. This was no different than…

_J'zeri 'Berov._

The thought was as unwelcome as it was disorienting. That was a name 'Korid had all but pushed from his mind and in that moment he saw Amy for exactly what he thought she was.

Heartless.

Manipulative.

A deep and sonorous growl rolled up from Torsch's throat as his skin went all hot with humiliation.

"Where are you going?" Amy asked as he stood from the bedding on shaky legs and began hurriedly dressing.

"Away from _you_," he snapped.

Starr recoiled from the venom in his voice, pulling a sheet across her bare chest to her chin, "What?" she asked, confused, "Why? What's wrong?"

He rounded on her, forty plus years of misery and untold humiliation spewing out as his temper exploded, "_Your elaborate entertainment at my expense is __**over**!"_ seethed.

She backed away from him, heedless of her nakedness, eyes wide at the unbridled rage in his expression as she plastered herself against the wall.

'Korid flared his mandibles menacingly, his body shaking with raw fury. He glared at her, hurt and anger evident on his face as he turned and finished dressing then left without another word.

* * *

**Outskirts of Caddo County**

Daniel sat himself on the trunk of a felled tree in the mid-day sun and stretched his legs as he pulled the knapsack form his shoulder. Lucinda passed by him, stomping her cane to punctuate her continued displeasure as she moved a few steps away and found a seat on a tree's cleanly hewn stump. She was quite wroth with him and had silently let her ire be known for the past two days with her quiet sulking. But, at least she was not crying.

Yet.

Since they had risen the morning after she had stopped speaking to him her waking moments had been spent wiping away silent tears, staring glumly at nothingness in utter dejection as they traversed the countryside, moving slowly forward like a woman headed to her own execution. With a sigh, Daniel rummaged through the sack and retrieved some dried, smoked fish. He untied the neat bundle, holding it in the crook of his arm while his mangled stumpy fingers fidgeted with the tie. He looked at the strips of meat for a moment before carefully extending one in Lucinda's direction.

She had not been looking at him but had been clearly watching from the corner of her eye as she turned her head defiantly at his offering, uttering her first words in almost two days.

"No thank you," she said bitterly, "I'm not hungry."

She had not eaten since their fight.

Daniel sighed as he looked down at the strips of smoked fish and found he was not hungry either.

Lucinda let her gaze turn back and watched in her periphery as Daniel returned the morsel to the knapsack and retied it.

She had lied. She _was_ hungry. But, she hurt so badly inside at the thought of losing him her stomach cramped.

_How could he claim to belong to her then plan to just _leave_? _

Boiling hot tears welled up and Deléon didn't try to hold them back, she didn't have the strength to keep them from breaking free to slide down her cheek and wet the sash covering her empty socket.

_He's a_ person, _Lucinda,_ she chided herself, _not a stray puppy._

Still, she cried, feeling like a part of herself was slowly being ripped off, torn out with a dull knife with every step they took toward civilization. There were no words to explain how she felt. It hurt in a way she had never experienced. She was scared and angry. She hurt so badly but she wanted desperately to cling to him, to go to him, to hold him, the very one who was hurting her so. Lucinda continued to weep to herself feeling confused and stupid and afraid; wondering, wishing she knew how to change his mind…

Daniel flexed his toes and stretched his calves and tried to pretend he did not notice her tears. It would do no good if he did. She would not accept his comforting at any rate and any insistence on his part would only make her more angry. She had tried to sneak off the morning before, yelling at him when she realized he was following her and throwing a rock at him and screaming that she hated him. It cut him to the quick to hear those words even knowing they were disingenuous. He would rather lose what remained of his good arm and both legs than to ever hear those words from her again. To his dismay, knowing she was so hurt did not make his intentions any easier. She was a part of him and he would have given anything not to…

"Daniel."

The sound of his name on her lips sent chills down the Sangheili's spine and he did his best not to shiver. Turning, Daniel saw Lucinda standing a few feet away, head bowed like a scolded child as she leaned on her cane. He had been so caught up in trying not to think of her sitting there crying because of him that he had not noticed her approach.

He made a deep, cautious grunting sound in acknowledgement and when she lifted her face he felt a jolt of agony at the tears freely flowing down her face. He felt as if he could not breathe but air rushed into his lungs when she stepped close.

Then, she stepped closer.

Her youthful, womanly scent filled his nose and Daniel felt the soft fabric of her dress brush the inside of his knees as she moved between them. She remained there looking up into his face and he watched helplessly as she trembled all over like a frightened bird. He ached to touch her as each second slid past but held himself in check for fear of making this vision stop. He knew he had to be imagining this.

Without word or explanation she reached for him. The cedar cane fell haphazardly to the ground with a _thump _as she abandoned it and took his face in her hands, pulling his mouth to hers.

It was awkward.

Restrained.

_Intoxicating._

Daniel could barely fathom what was happening even as their lips moved against one another slowly, seeking some kind of impossible anatomical alignment. Her inexperience, his physical damage, and the differences between them were woven together with subdued movement that sent heat curling down to his toes and collecting in a molten hot pool in his groin.

He grabbed hold of her as if his life depended on it, pulling her close, combing his fingers through her hair. Daniel felt himself sob as he ran his lips across her cheek to kiss away her tears. Lucinda's breath came in timid gasps and she modestly turned her head to hide embarrassed behind the veil of her hair. He swept the locks away and nuzzled her neck.

Deléon felt lightheaded with apprehension and swayed, moving without real knowledge of what he would want, trying to figure out what it was a man would expect of her, what he would _want _of her like this. She was scared and confused and desperate and unable to contain her body's trembling.

Daniel could feel her wholly unfledged, unpracticed, but tantalizingly movements against him, her body quaking with pent up sobs. He was lost as Lucinda slowly guided his mouth back to hers and the fullness of her lips glided against his. Daniel groaned as the velvet tip of her tongue nervously skimmed the rim of his snout.

He could not think clearly.

This was all wrong. He could feel it.

He should not...

Because she did not...

It was dizzying, as if all the blood had drained from his upper body to somewhere decidedly further south and his brain was struggling to function clearly. Then, Lucinda shifted back in his embrace and with trembling hands pulled the silken cording from the worn, oversized bodice of her gown.

Daniel blinked and a spike of panic surged through his gut as in terrified slow motion Lucinda turned her face away, downcast in shame and personal anguish as the garment slid like liquid across her thin frame baring pale skin and small, tender human breasts.

He realized then that she was not aroused in the least by this. She was afraid only. He knew. He knew because he had seen that look on a woman's face before.

Daniel caught the garment at her waist before she was exposed completely and pulled it back over her nakedness, shaking his head ardently, eyes wide.

_Not like this, _he thought, _Ancestors no, not like this._

Deléon looked back at him, utterly crushed. A dejected sob broke from her lips and Lucinda's face contorted as she balled her fists into the fabric and hugged it to herself. Her mouth trembled and huge tears fell across her cheeks from her eye and trickled in a thin trail from beneath the cloth covering one side of her face. The tears dripped form her quivering chin and she shook and tried to pull away, the heat of humiliation and self-disgust reddening her exposed skin. She faltered and Daniel caught her as she collapsed. He guided her gently to the ground and knelt on the earth beside her.

Lucinda cried. Raw, wailing sobs wracked her body and she doubled over, struggling for breath and choking against the violent intensity. As afraid as she was of how much it would hurt to let him…

His rejection hurt more. It hurt too much to feel and she wanted to lay down and just die. Try as she might she couldn't make it stop hurting.

As Daniel knelt beside her, Lucinda crawled into his arms and bawled and coughed against his bare chest. He held her and rocked her and purred to her consoling as she mumbled incoherently and spent her grief. Slowly, she began to collect herself, her sobs becoming quaking sniffles and shuttering hiccups.

Daniel looked down into her face and wiped her tears with the pad of his remaining thumb. Everything he thought he understood came undone when she slipped her arms around his neck and began to plead with him, her words muffled against his hide, "I'll do any-anything you want," she stuttered, "Please, Daniel...please don't go...don't leave me..."

His hearts broke for her. He had never realized...he did not think … As attached to her as he had allowed himself to become, he had failed to imagine she would become attached to him in return.

"I'll do anything," she said desperately, touching his cheek and turning his face to look into his eyes, "Please. I want to go wherever you go. I want to _stay_ with you."

Daniel stroked her hair, wishing he was worthy of half the price she had been willing to pay.

* * *

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

Naaco scribbled furiously in the ledger he used for making initial notes as a human voice on the other end of the communications link listed off items and numbers. Stealth Major Kote 'Hakkamr sat at one end of the large polished table looking over the projection from the mapping transmitter as he made notations of his own, zooming the image in and out, rotating it over, plotting points of colored light over the standard purple projection. Every now and again 'Hakkamr would consult Naaco on a matter of numbers and the slave would make the appropriate adjustment to his tally.

They were arranged in the main houses' dining room which had been converted into a conference area for the orphanage that was never to be. Around a long, smooth black table sat Amy, a few human soldiers and bikers, Naaco, Yipip, 'Korid, 'Hakkamr, and General 'Varlemai. The Covenant comms tower had been reduced to its essential parts and transferred into the house explicitly for these long distance meetings. The main communications node sat in the center of the table with important components laced to it by glowing exchange cords. Yipip silently manned the manual interface, his work essentially done now that communication had been established. Naaco could see his friend idly swinging his stumpy legs beneath the table.

The days had been long. Just as Stealth Major Torsch 'Korid had said, two days after the funerary service for the human child, contact was made with the team sent to Cean. Those sent to North Etienne had checked in during that time as well and all parties began a several days-long venture to coordinate their knowledge and work out a usable plan of attack. It was so much warrior-talk the slave only had a vague concept of: many words he knew but did not actually understand. He had never been so involved in a thing such as this and it made him a bit nervous.

Though no one _answered _to him in any capacity, at regular intervals assigned human and Sangheili soldiers would report their acquisitions and dispositions so that he could make adjustment to the records; and from that information he had some idea of what was going on around him. From the numbers reported from Cean and North Etienne there had been a large number of Sangheili survivors, and a few Kig Yar and Unggoy, who had followed 'Hakkamr's order that they take up with and help the humans.

With one hand making adjustments to the projection's diagram, Major 'Hakkamr lifted a pencil and made a mark on a stray sheet of paper. He was dedicated to rendering his tactical analysis though Naaco know well his mind was decidedly elsewhere. Kote's mate, Penny, was expected to go into labor at any moment. The priestess-women the humans called _nuns _were ever about the house making preparations and fussing over her. They made Naaco nervous.

Stealth Major 'Korid shifted in his seat and conferred quietly with Kote, reaching to make an adjustment on the holo projection. Currently subdued and thoughtful, the file leader was in fact on a tear. He had seemed almost tolerant at first, but these past few days he had returned to the gruff manner Naaco had always observed of him. Violent. Moody.

Across the table, Amy reached up and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were bloodshot, red-rimmed and puffy. Naaco knew she had been crying a lot, though she tried not to let it show. He could hear her sometimes in the middle of the night through the wall that separated their rooms. As the standing alpha female, she had a great deal to keep organized and Naaco knew it was heavy on her, especially lately.

There was growing anxiousness throughout the complex and it was Amy's job to keep everyone focused on the same track. Or, at least that was yet another responsibility she had given herself. The people wanted answers, action, a decision. They wanted all of that with some notion of justice which seemed to be ingrained into their species. There were squabbles over who was 'in charge': the Sangheili or the humans. For the most part the Sangheili had left the humans about the complex to govern themselves as they saw fit, but as things progressed toward military action concerns had been expressed about what would happen _afterwards. _Who had final say over how things were handled? Who decided what force was right and necessary?

The biker people seemed nice, though the Sangheili slave had little interaction with them. The human soldiers were much the same. And, both groups worked with the civilians to quell discontent. Naaco did not like the general tension which had moved in to hang in the air like a dark cloud.

The only one who seemed unaffected by all of it was General 'Varlemai. The enormous Spec Ops Sangheili sat with his rear end perched on the edge of a chair and his legs folded impossibly beneath him. The past few days had seen him busy preparing for his recon team to return with the prisoners reportedly taken near the military instillation. The thought made Naaco shiver. 'Varlemai was a _Swordsman_, in every sense of the word. Judging by the inscriptions on the secondary hilt clasped to his hip he was a ninth level master swordsman: an assassin. He was capable of very slowly killing men in ways Naaco had no way of beginning to imagine. If that were not terrifying enough, there had been widespread rumor that he was an active heretic, possibly one of the fabled Sons of Damnation, not that _that_ mattered now.

While the voice at the other end of the link continued, a tone bleated for Yipip's attention and Naaco watched as his friend's stubby fingers moved nimbly across the interface keys. The Unggoy reached up and pressed a rounded ear piece against his head and tapped a few more keys. Though his porcine face was mostly obscured by the methane rebreather harnessed to his muzzle Naaco could see the smaller creature's expression change.

"Hold traffic," Yipip said, pulling the headset off and uncoupling the link, "Stealth Major 'Korid," the Unggoy called excitedly, interrupting the unseen allies' transmission.

All eyes shifted to the former Deacon and 'Korid adjusted in his seat, crossing his arms and glowering at the Unggoy, "Speak," he snapped in obvious annoyance.

"It is patrol three-delta, on the southeastern perimeter, Stealth Major," Yipip chirped.

"_And,_" 'Korid growled. A patrol report was hardly worth interrupting a strategic discussion.

Yipip keyed the comms link, "Say again, three-delta."

Cory Trice's voice came over the link as clearly as if he were standing in the room, "Uh, hello? Am I on?"

'Korid snorted angrily and began to lean forward but Amy broke in before he could snap. She gave the warrior a cross look, "Go ahead, Trice."

"Oh, yeah…so, uh, we're out here about half a click south of checkpoint kilo and we've got, um…uh, some contacts?"

Those at the table exchanged looks, the human soldiers coming to their feet at the word. The bikers stood as well.

"What kind of contacts?" Amy asked, standing and reaching for the rifle slung across her back.

"Uh…well, um…it's a girl and uh…one _really fucked up _Elite. Hey!"

There was what sounded like a scuffle over the comms pick-up and Trice's voice faded off into the background as he shouted, "Eeth, you dickhead, give that back!"

The Stealth Minor's voice came over the transmission speaking rapid-fire in his native tongue and whatever he said made Kote freeze mid-plot marking. Torsch unfolded his arms; even Dak sat up straighter.

Amy and the rest of the humans looked around at the Elites, "Well?" she prompted, "What is it?"

No one spoke, all of them seemed to have been turned to stone by whatever Eeth had just said.

Yipip looked to his friend. Naaco trembled and let out a squeak. He felt like he was going to throw up, or pee on himself, or both.

"It is Legion Master 'Berovai," the slave said in a quivering voice.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

"So, what's the problem?" Amy asked. She cranked up the gaudy green truck as Stealth Major Kote 'Hakkamr folded himself uncomfortably into the passenger side, wedging his burly, armored shoulders inside the vehicle before he slammed the door shut.

As two soldiers climbed into the bed of the truck, Gator and his second-in-command, a lanky gentleman known only as Top Hat, pulled out of a covered motor pool area. Motorcycles growled thunderously as the two men headed across the complex toward the perimeter road with shotguns slung across their backs. Stealth Major Torsch 'Korid and Special Operations General Dak 'Varlemai zipped past astride Ghosts as Amy pulled the parking brake and threw the truck into gear to follow.

"'Berovai invoked the Demand of the Fated," Kote answered, speaking loudly to be heard clearly over the wind whipping around them. From the corner of her eye Starr saw the Sangheili scrunch up his face in what she knew was an expression of consternation, "It is…" he cocked his head from one side to the other searching for an appropriate human equivalent, "a form of _parlay. _In our culture it applies to condemned men who have violated the terms of exile. It provides a way for them to avoid immediate execution by making petition directly to a keep's ruler for leniency."

"But, 'Berovai is your _Legion Master_," Amy offered questioningly, shifting the truck into fifth gear and pushing it to keep up with the motorcycles and Ghosts which easily outpaced the bulkier vehicle.

Kote grunted in agreement, "Yes, it is quite _disturbing_. According to Eeth, 'Berovai would not step foot across the boundary."

The dark Elite clicked his mandibles, "The Stealth Minor said our Legion Master is not… _himself,_ and I have never known Eeth to be prone to such judgments regarding another's character, let alone a _superior's_."

By the way Kote said it, Starr knew there was more social context than was conveyed by those words alone.

They rode the rest of the way in contemplative silence, passing the dented barrel which marked checkpoint kilo and topping a slight rise to see Gator and Top Hat dismounting their motorcycles. 'Korid and 'Varlemai stood up ahead with Cory Trice and Eeth. The junior Stealth Sangheili was gesturing back toward a clutch of patrol vehicles as Amy pulled her truck to a stop alongside the dormant Ghosts.

Daniel watched the newcomers gather and discuss. As the Stealth Minor, Eeth 'Garen, spoke and gestured, the unfamiliar feeling of genuine fear curled in the scarred Sangheili's gut. It had been a strategic move, invoking the Demand of the Fated. But, now that he saw who could possibly be his judge he was uncertain. Torsch 'Korid stood in the midst of those gathered afar off, mandibles drawn into the grim lines of a scowl and eyes narrowed as he listened. It was a peculiar sensation, the emotions which tumbled inside. Daniel was pleased that his friend had survived, but at the same time, wondered if the moment of his own reckoning was not truly at hand. Now that the time had come, Daniel found himself wholly unprepared to leave Lucinda. It was as if a part of his own soul was to be torn away and he could not bear it. But, he also knew all too well the debt he owed to 'Korid, and the thought of how the girl might take the leveling of that balance broke his hearts.

Lucinda stood at Daniel's side, pressed against his leg and hip tightly, draped in the emerald fur which puddled around her and trailed well behind. She clung to his hand as securely as she could, her small fingers twined with what remained of his as she peered around at those who had come upon them and those who had recently arrived. The Elites seemed rather excited, though confused by the words which she had spoken on Daniel's behalf. Her companion shifted at her side and Deléon felt her heart thump in her breast as she looked over to see a group approaching. There were Elites; and humans, soldiers in remnants of armor and uniform; and two grizzled civilians. A lone woman walked in their midst wearing a UNSC fatigue blouse open in the front over a black top and tan riding breeches with knee-high jack boots. The butt of a rifle poked up from one shoulder while the end of its barrel peered from the opposite buttock. She took two hurried steps for every one of the broad, squat Elite who stalked purposefully on her right.

The party stopped before them and Lucinda pressed closer to Daniel, reaching to cling to the belted sash tied around his waist as he loosed his hand from her grip and signed to the strangers in their private language.

"He," Deléon began timidly, afraid of what would happen next, "he wants to know who is in charge here."

The blonde woman and the stout Elite spoke in unison, "I am," before briefly turning to glare at one another.

Daniel cocked his head curiously, shifting from one foot to the other.

The inner turmoil which coiled Torsch's insides barely left him able to contain his fury. He clenched his fists at his sides and ground his mandibles, his teeth popping loudly in his head. He hurt. Every bit of him, inside and out. He had not eaten or slept in days and every waking moment had left him mired in a pit of personal anguish from which he seemed unable to pull himself. Everything in his life was upside down. He felt lost and shamed, utterly foolish: the depths of which he had only once before experienced and which he had vowed never to allow himself to experience again. For all the good it had done.

There were human cannibals to deal with, and an assault to plan, and people to hold in some semblance of order; and now, here before him stood a scarred, malformed, and emaciated pile of flesh barely resembling a Sangheili being. How in the third pit of hell had this man somehow been mistaken for…

Torsch snorted angrily at the thought as he looked the newcomer over.

Dressed in a rag of torn cloth which barely afforded modesty, the man's exposed hide was ridged and trenched, pitted and pocked from head to toe. Gouges of muscle were missing across the man's wide chest; divots channeled hide and sinews and he was left scarred over in places where even the bone had clearly been carved beneath. The human girl clinging to his side wore the tattered and filthy emerald cloak of a Covenant Army Legion Master across her thin shoulders and over a dusty garment.

And, where did they get _that_?

This was the evidence upon which Eeth had based his misguided assumption?

From what 'Korid observed, the Sangheili was missing part of one arm and most of his remaining hand. He bore a wide and jagged, v-shaped scar down his neck from below his twisted lower mandibles, evidence of why he could not speak for himself. He stood there solemnly, armed only with a small human cleaving tool tucked into a corded belt tied about his waist and a flat human blade held in a make-shift sheath strapped to the bicep of his partial arm. He watched carefully as the Stealth Major continued looking him over.

Brow ridges and cheeks were marred with scaring which pulled the thin flesh into creases that resembled advanced age. Bright yellow eyes were full of trepidation and sorrow…

Eyes which were…_familiar. _

Eyes which once gleamed with intelligence and the hint of bottled malice.

'_Tell me, what is it like to be the penniless son of a farm sow?'_

"_Sicera._" 'Korid hissed, his voice a low, hoarse rasp as he took a reverent step back.

Before Torsch could raise his fist to his chest in proper salutation, the girl startled him by taking a challenging half-step forward leading with a walking cane. "That's _not_ his name," she snapped.

Her companion softly rebuked her with a snorting bark and she gave both men a petulant look.

"_Daniel_," the blonde woman said firmly, the stout Elite at her side sneered, looking stricken, "Eeth told us you wish to be called Daniel."

The Sangheili and the girl nodded, "He said that other name isn't who he is anymore, that man is dead," Lucinda offered meekly.

'Korid grunted derision, folding his arms.

Amy pursed her lips and sighed, "Lucinda?" The girl looked at her feebly, her mouth turned down at the corners in an expression of pain and embarrassment, concentration and fear, "Yes. Lucinda Deléon," she said shakily.

Starr smiled, "Well, Lucinda Deléon, I'm Amy Starr and this _personable fellow," _she flicked a hand in Torsch's direction and he scowled at her, "is Stealth Major Torsch 'Korid. We're what passes for _in charge_ around here so…" she glanced back to see Kote and Dak standing behind and to her opposite side, gaping. "Now what?" she asked.

This was their cultural thing, not hers.

Torsch cleared his throat and flexed his fists, "What charge is held against you that you make the Demand?" He asked hesitantly.

Sicera…_Daniel_ conferred with the frail looking Lucinda, making gestures and signs with what remained of his marred hand.

"I betrayed those over which I had power for my own glory," Lucinda said in a small voice, "I surrendered myself willingly into the hands of the enemy and I submit myself to the law of our fathers. I deserve no mercy in death but should face…" she paused and a small whimper escaped her trembling lips before she finished for him in a rush, "exile with my shame, please don't make him go!"

She grabbed him then, dropping her cane in her haste to wrap her arms around his waist as she began sobbing.

Torsch took a startled step back and gave Amy an uncomfortable, pleading glance at this female outburst.

"Okay, slow down," Starr soothed, cutting Torsch a sardonic look, "No one's making anyone go anywhere."

Lucinda scrunched up her face, wiping a sunken cheek with the heel of one hand, "H-he saved m-me," she stuttered as Amy leaned forward and picked the worm cedar cane from the roadside, "That h-has to count for some-something."

"You're right, it does," Amy said reflexively, not bothering to worry with the finer nuances of Sangheili cultural _crap_. Lucinda was scared and that's all Starr cared about in that moment. The girl was so young and clearly emotionally fragile. And thin. _Painfully _thin. God only knew what she had been through. And Daniel, Christ he looked _awful. _Beneath horrifically scarred flesh his musculature appeared to her eyes as slightly withered, malnourished. The both of them were dingy and dressed in cast-off garments and scraps of cloth. They had a familiar look of physical and mental exhaustion. Filthy. Probably hungry.

Yeah, life altering decisions about exile and so forth could be made_ later_.

Amy handed Lucinda her cane, fixing the girl with an understanding smile before turning away. 'Korid had stepped back and was conferring quietly with Kote and Dak in their native dialect.

"They should go back with us," Starr said as she approached the muttering Elites.

Torsch flexed his lips in a slight sneer but made no indication of overruling her. 'Hakkamr and 'Varlemai both gave curt nods of agreement. Amy knew 'Korid had no quarrel with her statement. No, he was pissed off at her _in general_.

Even after a few days it still left a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. Things had shifted so fast. One moment he had been making passionate love to her and the next he had inexplicably turned on her, snarling like an enraged animal. He had cut her out of his life so quickly and had literally walked away it left her feeling slightly off-kilter. She knew from the way he avoided her, the way he curled back his lips and bared his fangs he was angry. The one and only time she had tried to talk to him he had puffed up viciously and let her know she was no longer counted among those he wanted referring to him by his personal name.

The worst part was she didn't even know what she had done wrong.

Starr cut that line of thought off right there. She wouldn't be one of _those women_. It wasn't knowing that she had been weak that bothered her; it was how weak the torn and raw emotions made her _feel_. But, she had cried all the tears she intended to_. No more_. Hey, it had been fun while it lasted, and now it was over. He was a moody, bi-polar ass-hole. It was just that simple. _Right?_ She wasn't special. Hell, even his men had been subjected to being snapped at with greater fury these past few days. Like him, his patience was _short_ and his temper even shorter. Amy told herself there didn't have to be a reason. Torsch 'Korid was a Sangheili _man_, that's all the reason he seemed to require to be a jack-ass.

The important thing was to hold the survivors together. To continue _surviving_ and making all efforts to ensure _future_ survival. They had a strategic operation to finish planning. She would just have to suck it up and accept Torsch's poor attitude. She didn't have time to worry about her own feelings. Feelings got you hurt. So, fuck _feelings_.

Still, as Amy gave 'Korid a sidelong glance her heart did a little backflip into her stomach, fear and logic's way of telling her heart '_we-told-you-so'._

'Korid rubbed at his forehead, trying to stave off a building headache as he wondered how much more backward the situation on this planet could possibly become. After all he had already seen and heard, that his friend, his very _Kaidon_, would stand before him professing to be a military criminal pleading for _exile_; that his Legion Master, a man once possessed of a voice so resonant it could make the very walls tremble would now be mute_…_it was all completely ludicrous.

Torsch drew a deep breath. _Daniel_, he thought, rolling the name around in his head. _So be it._ 'Korid was, after all, by the terms of honor obliged to concede to his friend _that_ point for no other reason than Sicera had done so for him. The man had never insisted Torsch accept the honorary suffix and all that went with it following commendation. For all the ways this _Daniel,_ in the flesh of Sicera 'Berovai, had wronged him, Torsch 'Korid had never been forced to answer to a name he did not want.

_Although, there were other matters..._

Silent though Daniel was; hideously scarred and wishing to cast off his former self, those pale yellow eyes still radiated the lethal intelligence of a man born to rule, born to _lead_, born to kill and to _conquer_. Ruthless. Vicious. More so than 'Korid could ever count of himself. Though chief of a Stealth file, Torsch thought himself no true or particularly skilled leader. But, Daniel had been a man who had instilled conviction in his soldiers and extracted unwavering loyalty.

_They needed him. _

He had acted without honor, true enough, but he had amended his misdeeds, if what Naaco and Yipip and this girl had said was true. How much more would his men revere him as he stood?

Indignant as he was to agree with _Amy_, Torsch stood tall and turned to approach Daniel. Lucinda was still clinging possessively to the scarred Sangheili's middle as he tipped his gaze and watched the Stealth Major approach. 'Korid paused and looked the pair of them up and down then defiantly curled his fist and clapped it to his chest. With a bark he confirmed to the others who it was standing in their midst.

All of the Elites gathered behind snapped to the Sangheili equivalent of attention to do the same.

As the sound of their collective shout of allegiance rolled and dissipated across the landscape Daniel looked on with puzzlement and annoyance. 'Korid began walking away before the scarred man could protest.

"Stealth Minor 'Garen," Torsch growled.

Eeth jogged to his file leader as the man mounted a Ghost, "Call back to the compound," 'Korid ordered, "Tell them to make preparations for two more." He nodded toward where Lucinda and Daniel still stood, "He keeps his weapons. We have _much_ to discuss."

* * *

Lucinda had curled into Daniel's lap. He held her lovingly and ran his fingers through her hair. The two of them jostled about in unison, despite the easy pace, as they rode in the back of the ugly green truck behind Amy and Kote.

Starr intermittently watched this tender goings-on from the corner of her eye, catching glimpses of a silent conversation she couldn't hope to interpret, even if she was the kind to eavesdrop.

'Hakkamr spied her sneaking peeks and the Elite's mandibles turned up ever slightly into an uncharacteristic smile, "It is a capture bond," he grunted in answer to a perceived and unspoken question.

Amy gave him a sideways glance, seeing Lucinda turn their way curiously as she did.

"What's that?" the girl asked, looking questioningly from Kote to Daniel.

Daniel simply stared at the other man and blinked, as if some revelation had made itself clear and overwhelmed his thought processes.

He gave the Stealth Major a subtle nod then turned to Lucinda and brushed his hand along her cheek. 'Hakkamr was right. Lucinda was a part of him as much as his own flesh. He could no more live without her than he could cut out his own hearts.

_Oh, Ancestors, what have I done? _He wondered, realizing his selfishness at invoking the Demand, of wanting just a little longer with her, may come at a price he was unwilling to pay.

As Daniel's fingers fell to glide across Lucinda's shoulder, a swell of emotion tightened in his throat. For once he was relieved to be excused from the necessity of speaking.

He did not have to, Kote spoke up; "There is a long-standing acceptance across many Sangheili cultures of the phenomena which is known to occur between those taken captive. A _shameful_ event, one may only overcome such disgrace through escape, and even then it is required that personal and even _family_ honor be rebuilt anew. The atrocities shared by those who find themselves the prisoners of their enemies have been known to forge unspoken and iron-clad alliances; unbreakable personal bonds between those who have worked together and managed escape."

Amy pursed her lips and shook her head, "Well, damn," she muttered.

Lucinda looked at Daniel, dark brow furrowed against the edge of the cloth across her face and a questioningly coy expression pulling at her mouth.

'_It means,'_ Daniel said against her skin, his mandibles quivering as he choked back all the words made him feel, '_that we are one person.'_

She smiled back at him then, flinging herself against his chest and embracing him tightly.

"'Korid would do well to mind what he is dealing with," Kote grinned, his mouth full of crooked, pearly white fangs as he half-looked back at the spectacle, "That kind of bond is not one to trifle with."

Amy snorted good-naturedly, smirking as she down-shifted the truck and rounded the final bend, the complex off in the distance, "Yeah, I'll let _**you **_be the one to tell him that."

* * *

Penny Larouche had made her way out onto the back porch and sat in the late afternoon shadow. The old wooden rocker beneath her creaked as she gently pushed herself back and forth looking out across the courtyard. A breeze made clothing dance on the lines strung between a few of the housing buildings. The chatter and laughter of women attempting to gather the dried garments floated in a din up to Penny's ears.

There was the sweet, earthy smell of nearby vineyards in late bloom and the occasional metallic ping and mechanical grinding coming from down the way inside the forge. Larouche watched a young woman in grease smeared coveralls chock a freshly operational Warthog up the hill on the staging line. She gave Penny a bright smile and waved as she jogged back to the designated motor pool area before disappearing into the make-shift garage.

As she sat back and rocked, a group of small children, finished with their daily lesson, emerged from around the house walking in a neat line followed by an Elite and Trooper Andrews. At the designated assembly area, near the foreman's trailer, a few adults waited to take custody of their little ones.

Behind the nearby bustling refectory building, Elites and a few of the bikers took pains to carefully instruct a cluster of teens. At the fore of their semi-circle, a small buck and two fat cows were strung up by their hind legs from metal A-frame stands. A nearby table held an assortment of knives and cleavers, saws and snips. Various buckets were stacked round about.

From inside the refectory the sounds of laughter and talking, pots clanging and pans banging filtered out as other preparations were made for the evening meal. Foxy Lady and a younger, red-headed biker woman known as Locket worked with several nuns at an outside spigot to rinse various fresh vegetables which were piled high on a wooden table. Grand-mama stood near them, half overseeing their efforts and half keeping an eye on Penny.

With a satisfied smile, the pregnant Larouche splayed both hands across her middle and felt her babies as they kicked and squirmed and fought for the precious little room within. This was one of her few and guarded daily ventures from her bed. Numerous trips to the bathroom notwithstanding.

Penny continued to rock and take in the fresh air and peaceful, harmonious surroundings. Two Ghosts glided up the worn drive from the perimeter road, followed at a distance by two motorcycles. By the time Gator and Top Hat were pulling into the complex, Torsch 'Korid and Dak 'Varlemai had stowed their vehicles and were walking toward the main house. Afar off, Penny could just make out the boxy shape of Amy's truck ambling its way home. A glint sparkled from the vehicle's passenger side, the suns' reflection catching Kote's armor. Even at this distance, just by the way his form was resting in the passenger seat, she knew it was him.

Penny smiled brightly. She knew very well that there was an unspoken social taboo in what had happened between herself and 'Hakkamr. Some might even think it perverse, no different than if she were in an intimate relationship with an animal. But, to her he was a _person_, more _human_ in any relevant capacity than her babies' biological father had ever been.

The thought made Penny's stomach clench and she made a very conscious effort to dismiss it.

_Kote_ was good to her. That's all that really mattered. In his culture it made no difference who the father of her children was: it was none of his business. She was more thankful for that than any words could ever express, and there were, mercifully, no questions in that regard.

'Hakkamr loved her and protected her. Penny was sheltered: probably a bit _too_ much. She was never troubled with the goings on around the complex. Quite purposefully, Kote saw to it that Penny had little more than a vague concept of the ugly things which plagued the world outside her cocoon of safety. What she knew where only the things she had pieced together from bits of overheard conversations and what any sane mind would intuitively know. As far as 'Hakkamr was concerned, the only thing Penny needed to do was rest and think happy, stress-free, maternal thoughts.

There were now two cribs set up in her room, and several boxes of newborn-sized clothing which had been organized and reorganized. The nuns had surprised her with matching, hand-sewn baby bedding. As the days ticked by, each one feeling like a physical accomplishment, Kote seemed to be the one who was the most excited.

The truck lumbered across the courtyard and Major 'Korid snapped irritably at those Sangheili who paused to give it a lingering look. Amy swung the vehicle up to the house and Penny carefully stood. She stretched her back, twisting ever slightly from side to side as she moved to prop herself against the sturdy porch rail. Amy and Kote stepped out and joined 'Korid and 'Varlemai who were already waiting as a badly damaged Elite and a thin human girl climbed from the bed of the truck. Dak, with his frightening size, plucked the girl up with surprising gentleness, as easily as if he were lifting a twig. He set her on her feet and everyone seemed to wait while her companion gathered their meager belongings. Torsch handed the girl a battered cane and when she turned toward the house Penny gasped.

"Sweet baby Jesus and his ten little toes!"

Everyone turned at her outburst but Penny didn't notice their startled stares as she began making her way in cumbersome haste to the porch steps. Kote was immediately there, trying to dissuade her. She swatted the overprotective Elite away even as she used his arms to steady herself. She eased down and the girl looked across the distance between them and smiled. Her face was dirty and sunken, partly obscured by a rag across one eye, but familiar nonetheless.

"Lucinda Deléon, Lord have mercy, child," Penny said as she made the last step and turned from Kote to wrap her arms around Lucinda. She had known the girl and her family for years. Deléon had attended Saint Mary's Academy, the small school at which Penny had been a nurse.

Lucinda returned the embrace awkwardly, her fears momentarily forgotten as a swell of unexpected relief washed over her at finding someone in this place she knew.

"_Oh_, Sister Penny," Lucinda cooed, leaning back from the embrace to run her hands appreciatively across Penny's stomach "you've gotten so _big_." Her cheeks immediately reddened and her expression shown embarrassment at the exclamation.

Penny laughed heartily and pulled Deléon close again with a jovial mutter, "That does tend to happen."

The two of them smiled and giggled and Larouche rocked Lucinda a few times before finally letting her go.

Lucinda looked around curiously, "Is anyone else here?" she asked, restrained joy barely daring to shine in her eye as she wrung the skirt of her oversized, dingy dress.

Penny pursed her lips and a clouded look shadowed her face even as she nodded, "A few," she said sadly, "but none you'll be lookin' for, sweetheart."

Deléon nodded, her mouth twisting into a tight, disappointed look as she choked back the hopes which had involuntarily risen to the surface. Oh, how she had tried all this time not to wish, not to dream…not to _hope_…

"Well," Penny chirped, trying to change the subject. She puffed herself up like mother hen, looking at the others. Grand-mama and Sister Penelope had joined the fray and began ushering Lucinda up the steps as Penny stood for a few beats and stared at the scarred Elite.

"Let's get them inside," Larouche finally said, her throat tight at seeing the scope of his healed injuries, her mind abuzz with thoughts of what had happened to them both and what had brought them here.

Lucinda glanced back as she walked into the house and saw Daniel smiling back at her from beside the truck. He gave a soft grunt and a genteel nod of approval. As she looked back at him and smiled, a slight Elite emerged from an adjacent hall just inside the doorway worrying with thick metal bands around his wrists.

This small stranger peered from around the doorway, showing his face more than seeking to view; and Daniel's entire expression collapsed.

"Wait," Deléon said, stepping back as the smaller Sangheili slunk out onto the porch, shoulders slouched, head hung.

On the lawn, Daniel felt a wobbling weakness in his fore keens and his mouth had gone dry.

_Naaco…_

Unknown regret slammed his hearts against his ribs at the sight of the boy and a swirl of memories vied for control. The monster he had been and the man he wanted to be could not reconcile themselves. Their attempt made him feel suddenly weak and physically ill.

The slave meekly walked the breadth of the porch and descended the steps. As all watched in silence, Naaco approached his master.

Daniel felt like he could not breathe.

Face downturned in respect, Naaco did not take in his master's appearance. It was not his place to make such observations. He walked, forcing his heavy feet forward. When he made the bottom of the steps, he stood before his master and lifted his shackled wrists in a symbolic gesture of submitting himself back to his rightful owner. He had no choice. He was property. As much as the idea terrified him, he preferred to live. He hoped 'Berovai's violence would at least be placated with his unwavering obedience…

Daniel hit his knees, dropping to the ground with a heavy _thump_ as he reached with a mangled, trembling hand.

Naaco stood there, confused and frightened as he looked at his master's face. A face contorted with scars and anguish. For a moment, 'Berovai gently touched the old, hash-marked lines that ran up Naaco's arms. Then, a tortured hand closed violently around a thin wrist. Naaco's eyes went wide and he let out a squeal of surprise as he was jerked from his feet, hauled against the man's chest; enveloped in a powerful embrace.

Daniel wept.

For a moment, Lucinda looked from one to the next of the gawking faces of the others as they stood there staring. The Elites looked horrified. Then, as she looked back at Daniel she realized, despite their shock, she was the only one who understood what he was saying as he signed over and over again...

'_Forgive me,__ my son.'_


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

Water, a scant from its boiling temperature, pelted Daniel's hide. He gritted his mandibles and leaned fully into the shower's deluge. He had scrubbed his skin until it felt raw and the escaping liquid blasted at a high pressure against his hypersensitive flesh. He growled contentedly as rivulets of thick foam, carrying with it the rich lather of clay soap, corded down his extremities, winding as they followed the curves of his body and the channels and ridges of scars. Along with the chemically harsh soap preferred by humans, he had been provided with that composed of coarse-grit clay and sweet-smelling oils: very close to soaps rendered by his people. It was a blissful experience.

Daniel breathed deeply the earthy scent of the clay and the light perfumes of essential oils held captive in the showers heavy steam.

The entire basement of the complex's main house had been turned into a wash and sanitation area for the Sangheili of the house. Shower accommodations deliberately constructed for their size, and toiletry facilities more in tune to that which they were accustomed, were partitioned off neatly. The floor was rough-textured concrete which sloped ever slightly toward various drainage ports. The walls were bare block and the ceiling was low, but not uncomfortably so. A sump unit gurgled and sputtered loudly from an adjacent room as it pumped the gray water away.

Daniel completed his rinse and twisted the rudimentary dial to shut off the flow before stepping out to drip in a shallow dressing area. Plumes of steam parted and billowed all around obscuring his vision as it danced about the space. He found a stack of towels and worked vigorously to dry himself. Once dry, Daniel contemplated the clothing folded neatly on a small table.

The garments, though human-made, were very much the Sanghieli equivalent of civilian attire. Despite their familiar nature, or more appropriately _because_ of it, he felt mild frustration tickle the back of his mind. With a sigh of resignation, Daniel lifted the length of cloth which constituted underclothing and struggled to orient it around himself. It was awkward, and downright difficult to arrange the simple garment about himself to secure essential parts with only _one_ hand. The completion of _that_ task brought a feeling akin to some kind of ridiculous personal triumph. The scarred Elite then donned outer garments: loose flowing pants, the legs of which fell to just below his hocks; and a simple shirt with wide sleeves which terminated at his elbows.

The _Sisters_ had clearly gone to great pains to make the Sangheili feel welcome here. It was not a thing he had expected. Then again, he was uncertain what it was he _had _expected.

Certainly something.

But, not this.

Daniel shook off the thought as he policed up his mess, depositing his former garment into a trash receptacle before making his way to the stairs. The narrow corridor led him up and out and into the main floor's small kitchen. Though designed to fit humans the house was a comfortable size. With tall ceilings and wide halls and passageways it was easy for a Sangheili to navigate.

The sound of chatter rolled in from beyond a wide doorway.

Following the prattle, Daniel emerged into an open room to find Lucinda seated sideways in a plush straight-backed chair. The matronly woman everyone called _Grand-mama Larouche _was perched on the edge of an adjacent sofa working to wind the last few inches of the girl's thick, damp hair into a braid. Lucinda smiled, empty socket hidden behind a swatch of clean linen and big brown eye sparkling mischief as Daniel entered.

He felt his flesh prickle.

_Sweet Ancestors _but she was beautiful. Her fare skin was a healthy pink after being scrubbed clean and she was dressed in clothing which was more appropriate for her frame.

_She belongs here._

Daniel could see her contentment as she sat less-than patiently squirming in her seat and alternately patting her tiny bare toes against the lacquered wood floor.

Almost immediately after their arrival Lucinda had been taken and seen by resident medical staff. Daniel refused any type of examination, attesting to his fitness despite the dubious looks from both humans and Sangheili alike. The human priestess-women had taken their time assessing Lucinda's wellbeing and he had had plenty of time to be shown around the complex in the interim.

It was quite the organized undertaking. They were maintaining an accumulated stockpile of weapons and armor and other such warriorly accoutrements; as well as numerous operational vehicles. A garage and a forge lent themselves to related maintenance while an assortment of buildings served housing and associated basic needs. A communications tower had been put to use and progress was being made in getting an energy tower retrofitted for use in powering recoverable human devices and to supplement machinery already in working order.

Away from the encampment the tubular curve of a Type-25 Troop Carrier's troop bay could be seen barely visible as it peeped from the distance over a copse of tall and wily grape vines. The bay had been separated from the main body of a downed vessel and hauled near the complex to serve as a holding facility for prisoners which were anticipated to arrive soon with a returning scout team.

Thirteen hundred Sangheili soldiers called the complex home along with half as many humans, less than a quarter of which were themselves soldiers. Many of the military personnel were not immediately on site, as per an increase in mobile patrols and a heavy entrenchment of warriors in strategic locations on the perimeter.

Though Torsch had made no open demand on his former Legion Master, all through this tour Daniel could feel himself being prepped for something. Perhaps that was all in his head: the residual and instinctive response of a man who had spent almost all of his life, military and civilian, planning operations.

After the circuit of the complex, Daniel had been taken to the resident dining hall. There he had been left to join Lucinda for a meal.

Thankfully, the idea of eating in the presence of other people had not been as unpleasant as he had imagined. Though workers milled about in the kitchen banging pots and pans and chattering as they worked, his only real company had been Lucinda. They served themselves from a great pot of stew which was perpetually simmering and ate in a relative and comfortable silence.

Though the humans made provision for four regular meals a day; morning, mid-day, and early and late evening, they also saw to it that those whose duties prevented them from attending a scheduled meal or who were hungry in between were not left wanting. In the dining hall embers in a deep stone fireplace heated a heavy black cauldron of cast iron which was fed several times a day with boiled bone stock, a thick rue of fried fats and flour, and an assortment of vegetables and meats left remaining after meals. Nearby was a basket overflowing with dry breads available for sopping and several tall cylindrical vessels of stainless steel which kept their contents of teas and water refreshingly cool.

The stew was manageable though extremely rich. Daniel found himself inordinately preoccupied with feeling embarrassed at the prospect of being spied by those who worked in the kitchen. His already awkward eating was compounded with using an unfamiliar implement.

A _spoon_ was a foreign concept, though generally agreeable considering his specific limitations.

Lucinda had gobbled so eagerly that by the end of the meal she had succumbed to hiccups.

Once fed, the two of them had been escorted back to the main house in the early evening light. While they had eaten, arrangements had been made for them to spend the coming sleeping hours in the main house. They had been provided with clothing and other personal necessities.

When informed that she was to have her own room Deléon had been greatly displeased. The little human woman had crinkled up her nose and dug in her heels, eyeing everyone suspiciously. Much to Daniel's amusement, she had put Major 'Korid and Sergeant Starr on the spot and made them both swear that this was not some kind of trick in which they were being separated so that Daniel could be whisked away. This had garnered from Amy a bemused smile and left Torsch looking rather itchy in his own skin at Lucinda's audacity.

The suns were almost set by the time Daniel had finished leisurely scrubbing and scouring his hide.

Grand-mama Larouche made a matronly humming noise and deemed Lucinda's hair acceptable. Immediately, the girl rose from her seat and closed the distance between them, throwing her arms around Daniel's waist.

"_GODDAMNIT!_"

Lucinda startled against him and Grand-mama turned toward the sound of the outburst as she rose. The old woman drew her dark face into a look of disapproval and muttered something unflattering in French as she walked off toward the back of the house wagging her head.

The exclamation had come from behind the double-doors of an adjoining room. It was female and its pitch made even Daniel cringe.

"There is no reason for this hostility," Stealth Major 'Korid's voice rumbled from inside the room. His tone was slightly elevated. His words were laced with venom.

"I don't think they like each other very much," Lucinda whispered conspiratorially.

Daniel looked down to see her frowning up at him.

She was correct. Stealth Major 'Korid and Sergeant First Class Starr did seem generally cross with one another, though it had not appeared to affect their working abilities, until now. That was nothing unexpected from Torsch. His inherent and religiously zealous distaste for humans aside, he had an aversion to dealing with women.

Daniel knew that was partly his fault…_mostly _his fault…

_No_, he reminded himself, _I am no longer _that_ man_.

However, he was certain Torsch was unlikely to so easily dismiss his former kaidon's culpability in _that _matter.

With a disgruntled _harumph_, the scarred Elite shook his head and stepped toward the doors. Starr's mocking voice floated out ahead of him, "I'll show you _hostile_."

"Do not presume to threaten me, _woman_."

Daniel bumped one of the doors with the side of his foot and it slowly yawned open.

Naaco was in a far corner, holding a small human tome clutched to his chest. He looked terrified. Yipip sat at a communications node, his small face ping-ponging back and forth between Amy and Torsch as they stared one another down from opposite ends of a large oval table. Stealth Major Kote 'Hakkamr sat at the far side next to the Unggoy. The junior Stealth Major was shaking his head, shoulders slouched, elbows on the tabletop, face in his hands while Amy stood and glowered across the expanse at 'Korid. The stout man was leaned forward in his chair, hands folded neatly before him, a frown on his face while the woman fumed.

"Oh, that's not a threat, _'Korid. _You can't _do _this."

"It is already done."

"_Goddamnit_," she shouted again, banging a fist against the tabletop and turning her ire on 'Hakkamr, "And how long have _you _know about this, Kote?"

The man sighed wearily, straightening and opening his mandibles to speak.

"An opportunity presented itself…" Torsch said before Kote could respond.

"And you just _decided_ to use humans as live bait. Wonderful. No, really, thanks for that. Very thoughtful," she paused a moment then yelled, "_Did you even stop to think what could go wrong?_"

Torsch snorted, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms, "I have been a warrior for over _sixty_ of your human years, _woman_, I am quite capable of considering potentially unfavorable contingencies. I hardly require a lecture form _you._"

"These people _trust _you. Trust _us _to…"

"As I recall," the Stealth Major interrupted amiably, reaching to scratch at a lower mandible in a gesture which was anything but, "you made it quite clear you had no desire to engage in discussions of what we have planned for the prisoners…"

"This isn't about the prisoners…" Amy said through clenched teeth.

Torsch growled darkly, leaning to plant his folded forearms on the table, "_**And **_how we planned to address the cannibals…"

"I didn't expect you to lead them here, _goddamnit!_" Amy shrieked.

"I am not responsible for your lack of foresight, _woman_. If you wished to have a say in the matter perhaps you should not have left it for the _men_ to deal with."

"Do you even hear yourself right now? There are _children_ here, _'Korid_. This is supposed to be a safe…"

Torsch interrupted her with an impolite guttural noise and shifted in his seat, "I am well aware of this location's intended function and _my_ place in it." Amy narrowed her eyes as he went on, "What I do _not_ understand is what you propose to accomplish with your contention at this late hour. This argument is irrelevant and _obscene. _The decision has been made and the actions already taken cannot be reversed. You did not want the responsibility now _live with it_," he shook his head and muttered angrily, "This is precisely why females should remain _in their place_."

"_Excuse me_?" Amy hissed, planting her fists against the tabletop and pushing up on her tip-toes, posturing like a she-doarmir prepared to pounce.

'Korid lifted a brow ridge, undeterred, "This argument is a _waste of time_," he growled.

"Yeah," Amy said, her voice tight as she straightened and folded her arms across her chest, "well it wouldn't be the first time I've wasted my time with _you_, would it?" she spat.

Whatever it was to which the slight blonde woman made reference clearly struck a nerve. Torsch flinched and seemed momentarily stunned. No. _Hurt_. Daniel watched as the Stealth Major ever slightly scrunched his lower mandibles. The tendons in 'Korid's neck flexed as he slowly rose from his perch, his whole body drawn up in a rigid posture like a snake prepared to strike.

"If that is how you prefer to think of it," he said through gritted teeth.

Amy laughed mirthlessly, "And you would really call it something else?" she sneered sarcastically back.

Kote was looking wide-eyed from 'Korid to Amy with mandibles agape and drooping, as if he would rather be anywhere but there; witness to anything but what had turned into this rather personal quarrel. "Perhaps we should..." he attempted to interject, looking up to see Daniel standing in the doorway. Relief registered on the junior Stealth Major's face and he barked loudly, coming to his feet. At the call Torsch straightened reflexively, old habits being hard to break Daniel supposed, then bunched up his shoulders and snorted frustration at seeing Daniel lingering in the doorway. The senior Stealth Major tugged irritably at a lower mandible before dropping heavily back into his seat. 'Hakkamr cast his gaze about uncomfortably as if uncertain if he should follow his file leader's dismissive cue.

In another place and at another time, in another life Daniel would have viewed his friend's actions as a sign of open disrespect. As he was, he had no right to take umbrage.

"You know what," Amy said, rubbing a hand across her face, "I'm done, there is entirely too much testosterone in this room."

She gathered up a few items from the table and Daniel stepped aside as she brushed past him.

The scarred man looked back to his friend and scowled.

* * *

**Outskirts of Caddo Parish**

Charlie worked the oversized, corkscrewed, chopstick-like implements with calloused hands, using the tapered ends to dunk dense cracker-like chunks into a large, oblong tin of water. Over the near week since their capture, the Elites had proven to be somewhat hospitable, at least as much as was necessary to keep their captives alive.

Despite a fair amount of practice, using the alien cutlery required a degree of finesse and hands of a size Charlie simply did not have. But, he managed. At his side, his older brother, Hagart, painfully worked to remove his left boot. Hagart's brother-in-law, Lance, helped the older man as best he could.

The three Caddo Rebels were unfettered though well-guarded; and not at all inclined to make a run for it. This left only the mouthy Donnovan Jones…well, _formerly_ mouthy, remaining bound.

_That was his own damned fault_, thought Charlie, feeling not one ounce of sympathy for the other man.

The Sangheili had been generous enough to remove the captives' shackles for easier walking after Hagart had taken a nasty fall in which he twisted, and likely broken, his ankle. They had later untied hands to allow the men to eat and take a leak. They all remained unfettered now, with the exception of Jones who the Elites wisely didn't trust an inch.

The rail-thin, chatter-box had since been muzzled on top of being hobbled and cuffed. A stick was crammed in his mouth like a dog with a bone and a length of cord was lashed around his head. The make-shift gag reduced his utterances to sloppy vowel sounds. Charlie looked up and saw Donnovan as he sat wiggling against his bonds and glaring silent daggers at his more mobile companions.

The little prick really had some gall. Once Ashmund's man had realized what was going on he had tried to buddy up with the others. As if the change in situation had made the recent past disappear from memory. When that failed to work to Jones' satisfaction, the weasel had proceeded to list every depraved thing his vile mind could conjure in suggestion of what the Elites had planned to do with them.

_His way of trying to garner support,_ Charles supposed.

Donnovan seemed too dim, or perhaps too full of himself to realize or care that the aliens could actually understand every word he said. Charles had to give the Elites credit for patience, or perhaps there was some mechanism in their helmets which allowed them to periodically tune Donnovan out. At any rate, they had let the man blather on for days. Then, yesterday, after they had stopped for a time to rest and been given a now familiar yet alien food to eat, with Jones yammering on and on, quite abruptly one of the captors had finally had enough.

It had been the same mess Jones had been saying for days, about how they were being led in circles, slowly walked to death, fed and hydrated for amusement and to make the process take longer; that this was all some kind of devious game.

Even when eating the rat had never stopped talking. It was disgusting.

Up until that moment the creatures had all looked pretty much the same to Charlie. Tall and burly and heavily armed, in sleek black armor which had only minor differences with which to tell them apart. One Elite stood out as the leader and it was this one who had wheeled, snarling an ugly slew of alien words which filtered out untranslated from his helm. The others had given only perfunctory glances as the alien had stalked from where he had been looking out at the distance and angrily stowing a heavy energy rifle across his back. Clasps _clinked_ and the weapon had _thumped_ against armor all while the Elite had seeped hate and bore down on Jones.

Donnovan had let out a startled yelp and sprang, hopping and creeping as he had moved to take cover behind the others. Lance had casually jutted out a boot and tripped the man up, shoving him as he tottered and sending him careening into the advancing alien. The creature had grabbed Jones by his shirt and hauled him choking and wriggling from the ground. Multiple seams then split the Elite's shiny helm and the pieces retracted away from a distinctly alien face.

"_Silence_, you!" The Sangheili had hissed in lightly inflected but otherwise perfect English, "Else I will find a way to bind your mouth shut!"

Donnovan, in some fit of complete insanity had smiled his nasty, rotten-toothed leer then harked his throat before spitting a wad of mucous and saliva onto the Elite's snout.

The alien's pupils had all but disappeared into tiny predatory slits and he had seemed to enjoy immensely finding a way to secure Jones' mouth. The man had not been relieved of his bonds even to eat or drink, or anything else since.

And Charlie just couldn't find it within himself to care.

Hagart audibly winced as his boot came free and Charles paused to cast a glance at his brother's foot. The ankle was black and blue and swollen; and the foot was now twice its normal size.

Even the Elite who hung back with them unclasped and removed his helmet to get a better look.

Charlie shook his head and resumed poking at their food.

Though he still thought of Hagart as his "big brother" both men could only catch a glimpse of middle age in the rearview. Hagart was too damned old to be hobbling about on a bum ankle.

They were strong and fit, more so than most men of their age. Heck, Hagart had been fifty-two years old when his daughter, Charlie's beloved niece, had been born; and that had been what, sixteen years ago? And the man could still work circles around some of the younger of the faction. Both of them could.

_Could_.

_When the faction still existed. _

Stubborn until the very end as always, Hagart had refused to acknowledge the increased difficulty he was having with walking. Walking itself had never been an issue. Far from it. Hagart took care of himself. The man was well known for his lengthy morning runs, a habit he had taken following a short stent with the UNSC Marine Corps.

The problem had begun with the tethers which Ashmund's men had hobbled them. Hagart had taken a nasty fall and, unable to steady or catch himself, had wrenched his left ankle. Though their captors had opted to cut their bonds from there out, the damage was done. Days of walking, slogging through sand and tromping through woodland had left Hagart practically lame.

The Elite crab-walked near and Hagart and Lance watched cautiously as the creature inspected the injury.

"We will reach proximity to our destination tomorrow before evening," the alien said in a deep, gravelly voice, "Transport can be arranged from there. I will advise for medical staff to be available when we arrive. Unless you prefer to be put out of your misery where you sit?"

Lance startled and raised a hand as if to stave off the suggestion, "He can make it," the younger man said, "We can get him there. No need for all that."

The Elite made an expression which suggested his indifference before rising and sauntering off.

* * *

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

Locket looked at the closed door and worried with a frizzy red curl as she hesitated.

She knocked lightly and called out, "Sergeant Starr?"

There was a thump and a muffled curse from inside the room.

"Yeah?" came the reply.

"It's, um…it's Locket," the girl said questioningly.

After a few beats Amy opened the door.

Starr looked the young woman up and down and winced as she rubbed at the top of her head, "Yes?"

Locket stood there with a half-smile on her freckled face. The young woman looked all of twelve years old, though she was likely closer to twenty.

"Got a minute?" Locket asked, "We wanna' show you something."

Amy followed the girl out of the house and across the complex. It was dark and few people were out. It was almost curfew for residents who didn't have assigned duties. Starr had spent the last several hours taking out her irritation by trying to make some sense of order from the boxes and junk cluttering her room. After her row with Stealth Major Dip-Shit, she had needed to do something productive.

She was mad and frustrated. Partly because Torsch had been somewhat right; but mostly because he had been such an_ ass_ about it.

The two women made their way down the western side of the compound, past the chapel and dormitories, all the way to the very last building. Locket twisted a handle and pushed her way through a narrow entry door into the forge.

The pungent smells of burnt ozone, singed metal, and air heavy with dust greeted them. Dingy, rusty, wide tables made from thick sheets of crudely welded steel lined the middle of the workshop. Numerous hand tools were arranged in a semi-orderly fashion along walls; impact equipment hung from retracting cords, and manual winches dripped their chains from the I-beam rafters. Air compressors and different assortments of welding tanks were stowed on their trolleys in a jumble of hoses along a far wall.

A set of tall, rear bay doors were propped open and crisp air drifted in against the dark night. Near the opening a group was gathered. Humans and Elites were sitting on workbench tops, standing around, lounging against the door casings, or parked on the floor. Tools, armor pieces; reloading equipment, large bore shot shells, random weapons parts; and tins of broken and unusable nails, bolts, waste metal, and sand and stones were scattered about in an organized disarray.

As they neared the group, a large shaggy dog of indeterminate pedigree lifted her head and gave a deep and welcoming _woof _as she lay across one of Eeth's feet. The half-hearted greeting signaled a gaggle of roly-poly puppies to roust from outside the door. They rushed the newcomers in a mass of joyous yaps and dancing tails. The women waded through the playfully circling, bouncy dogs and made their way to the others.

Cory Trice was standing with a group of other lower enlisted, civilians, a few bikers of similar age, and junior Sangheili fresh from patrol. The humans were dressed in a travesty of tattered uniforms, miss-matched civilian clothing, and leathers. Everyone wore only a few bits of scuffed and dingy armor.

Locket paused near Trice and lifted a fat cat from the table top. N'Rule, lounging nearby, long legs stretched out, ankles crossed in the dirt and hands occupied with a bulky weapon, idly thumped Cory with his elbow, sending the UNSC Private bumping gently into Locket.

Trice smiled awkwardly. Locket blushed.

"Hey...oh, hey, Sarge," Cory said.

Amy gave him a suspicious smile, "What exactly is going on out here?" she asked.

"N'Rule is being a dick," Cory answered matter-of-factly.

"I see," Starr eyed the Elite and in return he gave her an abbreviated mandible flare, the Sangheili equivalent of a non-committal shrug.

"What's this?" she asked, jutting her chin toward the weapon in N'Rule's arms.

"This is what we wanted to show you," Locket volunteered, passing the orange striped cat to Cory and taking the Frankenstein's monster of a shotgun from the Elite.

Locket presented the gun to Amy. Even with a sawed-off alien barrel and short human stock it looked unweildy: a disconcerting amalgamation of Covenant and civilian parts.

"It's just a prototype," Cory said, "We call it _The Reaper_."

"_Okay_," Amy droned, giving the group a hard look.

"We've been working on it in our spare time," a PFC Jordan offered. He was barrel chested and had cut the sleeves off of his shirt. A mass of colorful tattoos covered his left arm. Like almost every other human male of sufficient maturity he boasted scruff on his chin.

"We figured there had to be something we could do with all of the busted weapons and scrap we found out on missions," another young man added. That one, and the one standing next to him were the boys who had come in with Torsch. Aaron and Zeke.

"Yeah," a tall brunette with severe acne scars said. _Peach_. She was a Freedom Guard Rider: Top Hat's granddaughter.

"This is what we came up with. Better than letting it go to waste," the young woman said somewhat defensively.

Three Elites Amy didn't know nodded their agreement.

The Sergeant First Class gave them all an intense look, then nodded with a clipped, "Show me."

Grins and murmurs of triumph broke out all around and everyone moved about as Locket scooped up a UNSC field helmet and plopped it over her wild, chestnut curls.

She paused and said apologetically, "We haven't had much luck with anything but scatter guns," she fed the beast a standard red-jacketed slug then worked the action and went on, "This one is a ten gauge, semi-automatic, plasma operated…"

"_This _one," Amy blinked, "_Plasma_ operated," she repeated.

Locket smiled from behind the helm's yellowed visor, "Yep" she sang then stepped off, flicking the safety as she stalked away shouldering the stock. She took aim at a set of Covenant armor arranged like an alien scarecrow on a metal frame several meters away.

Amy reflexively covered her ears with her palms while no one else so much as flinched.

There was a low level _thrum _and the modified shotgun kicked back against Locket's shoulder violently and vomited a hissing blob of molten blue from its barrel with a whispered _ker-thunk_. There was more noise as the plasma-heated slug struck the armor and began chewing through it than from the weapon itself. Covenant alloys sizzled and popped and a drooping hole ringed with slag melted and dripped to the ground.

Locket flicked the safety and hefted the barrel skyward as she wheeled around and grinned.

"Holy…_fuck_," Starr murmured, "How the hell did you…"

"And that's not the best part," the redhead chirped, hustling back with a skip in her step.

Amy watched as the young woman balanced the gun against her hip, lifted a rusty coffee can, thumbed the bolt cover, and proceeded to fill the tubular magazine with nails, bolts, screws, sand, bits of pea gravel, and slivers of metal, whatever happened to tumble out. She tossed the empty can to Amy then wheeled away before Starr could protest.

Locket cycled the action and flicked the safety and the shotgun let loose with a series of _whump, whump, whumps, _emptying the weapon and sending sprays of molten chunks and plasma which cut scattered holes in the armor until it was reduced to little more than pockmarked chunks which dropped from the frame in molten bits.

Locket rounded, hefting and twirling the rifle by its stock to settle it pointed downrange across her shoulder. Amy stared at her then looked at the others.

"How…" she tried.

Eeth, crouched and entertaining himself with eager puppies, motioned back to Locket with his chins.

Amy turned to the girl with a look of exasperation.

"Well," Locket said shyly, "it wasn't _all _me. It was my idea but Jordan and Peach worked out the shielding for the non-Covenant parts, and N'Rule and Vea configured the spent power cells, and Cory…"

"I get it, kid," Amy chuckled.

"There was a lot of trial and error…mostly _error_ but," Locket shrugged, "Wanna' try?"

"Hell yes I do," Starr answered immediately.

Locket passed over the helm and set the shotgun in Amy's hands.

The weapon was a good weight. It felt sturdy but was not too heavy so as to be as burdensome as it looked. The Sergeant First Class loaded the machine up with shells, noticing the safety selector's standard nomenclature had been scratched over.

The weapon now read with a simple smiley face and a tediously etched skull and crossed scythes.

_Cute, _she thought.

Amy turned toward the already decimated target. As she brought the stock to her shoulder and stepped off a conglomerate sighting-reticle blinked onto the helmet's head's-up display. Side indicators showed plasma cell levels and the number of shots she would have.

Amy took aim at the busted Covenant helmet piked before her and grinned.

* * *

It was well past the midnight hour when Daniel made his way toward his bed. Hours of listening to 'Korid and 'Hakkamr recount their plans while subtly pulling him into a position of decision-making, and him hauling back against them at every turn had left him exhausted.

Their mission tactics were sound. Though he was inclined to intellectually empathize with Starr's female concerns, he was a man…and had been a warrior. The band of human cannibals had one desire, and a predator was lured to its end by none other than that which it desired most.

By credible accounts, the largest collective of indigenous terrorists was in the region of two-hundred strong, with a few captives of their own. There was the possibility of other groups of insignificant numbers to be dealt with, but the scout team had managed to draw the attention of the most troubling collective. The force available at this location alone was enough to crush them. Add to this inbound troops from neighboring regions and the bulk of the cannibal threat would be quickly hemmed in and put down.

It was a worthy plan. One which was rightly undertaken prior to any assault against the primary objective.

Daniel was irritated…no, he was _angry _that he was being nudged into a position of leadership. One which he had no right to.

Not any longer.

Daniel flared his mandibles into a silent sneer of outrage. He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly to calm himself as he pushed open the door and crept in.

Lucinda had retired hours before and the sight of her nestled in bed deep in peaceful sleep welcomed him. Upon seeing her, his anger melted away.

After much protesting on her part it had been decided that Daniel could sleep on her floor just as easily as he could sleep on the floor of another room. He had not at all been comfortable with the idea of Trosch relinquishing his quarters, no matter how the man insisted he no longer slept there.

There was something behind that, Daniel was certain, though he had not yet worked it out.

Daniel stepped to the bedside and smiled down at Lucinda's slumbering vestige.

Even in the silvery moonlight he could see the glowing radiance which pinkened her cheeks. A satin sash was over her missing eye and strands of hair had escaped her braid to frame her face in light curls. Her mouth was a heart-shaped bow of full, slightly parted lips which he kissed.

She stirred with a sigh but continued sleeping.

Daniel stretched, yawning heartily and turning to the nest of blankets and pillows neatly made at the foot of her bed. He paused, tilting his head to one side as a wedge of the room looked back at him mirrored in a sheet of reflecting-glass.

It was canted so that all he saw was the remaining stump of his right arm peeking from the sleeve. He swallowed reflexively, contracting the muscles of his throat with practiced difficulty, then stepped toward the mirror cautiously, as if the Sangheili caught therein presented potential danger.

When he stood fully before himself, Daniel was afforded a view of his clothed lower half. He studied the reflection for a few moments deciding if he really wanted to know. Then, he slowly folded to the floor.

A stranger's face slid into view directly before him: a stranger who looked back at him with Sicera 'Berovai's eyes.

Daniel felt his hearts droop into his stomach as he reached with an unsteady, mangled hand and touched a lower mandible. It was twisted, the lips partially missing, fangs pointed skyward and the gum exposed. The opposite mandible was curled inward sharply at its tip making it appear sorter than its partner. The scar which trenched the place on his neck where his tongue had once been located had healed in a manner so as to permanently pull one lower facial appendage down like a stroke victim.

Upper mandibles were set out of alignment. The joints were bulging, gnarled knuckles. Finger nubs traveled the midline of his neck and wandered the hills and vales of garrote marks.

_Ancestors, he was ugly. _

Lucinda stirred in her bed behind him and he watched the lump of her sleeping form over his shoulder through the mirror. She wriggled for a few moments then settled back to sleep.

Daniel's eyes wandered back to his own mirrored image and he touched his snout. The hide of his face was a layered mess of scars and pits. A nostril slit had been torn. He could see his inner nasal cavity in a tear-shaped channel of pale purple which pointed toward his forehead.

How many times had he seen his reflection and cursed his face? Thereau 'Berovai's face.

Daniel did not know which was worse: looking in the mirror and seeing the handsome countenance of a man he loathed, a man he had wanted desperately _not _to be his father, a man he had killed…or seeing this hideous stranger mocking him in some parody of existence, a man he knew was himself, a man who had scoffed at death and lived.

"Daniel?"

Lucinda sat up in bed to see his eyes looking back at her miserably.

Without a word she slipped from the blankets and padded to him. He eagerly accepted her embrace from his seat on the floor, every cell of his being hungry, starving, aching in that moment for the comfort of her touch. She was soft and familiar. Her body fit seamlessly agsinst his as she embraced him and he pressed his face against her neck. She smelled like clean girl. Her arms encircled his neck and she rested a cheek against his temple, her body ever slowly swaying from side to side.

Daniel drew a deep ragged breath, signing carefully, 'I do not know this man.'

Lucinda kissed his marred forehead. Her lips moved in a wide, pleased smile as she whispered in a knowing, gentle sing-song, "But, I do."

He lifted his head, scrutanizing what he saw in the mirror. Despite her encouragement, the smile which turned his mandibles was full of sadness. 'I am not who they want me to be,' he said, his signing hand trailing off, finger nubs slowly brushing the scar on his throat.

She squeezed his neck and whispered lovingly, "They need you."

He shook his head, turning in her arms. He studied her face in the moonlight, reaching to wipe a curl from her cheek and tuck it behind her ear before he said, 'I cannot,' his fingers paused in mid-composition to twitch in thought. Out of words, he settled for repeating the mantra he so desperately wanted to be true, 'I am not that man.'

"No," Lucinda said with a loving smile. She reached in the silence and framed his face with her palms, "You're_ this _man."

Daniel chuckled silent mirthlessness, turning to and gesturing at his reflection, 'I cannot be what they need.'

"Why?"

He stared hard at himself, scarred brow ridges furrowing, mangled mandibles drawing together, 'You do not know the thing of which you speak. How awful I have truly been. That man slew his father. I…' he paused, face drawing into a mask of disgust, 'I maimed and enslaved...' a pause, fingers twitching, 'Naaco,' his formed the letters of the boy's name with sharp, furious movements before going on with equal vigor, 'He was my _son, _barely a youngling, not old enough to understand and still I marked him, murdered his mother before his eyes and when he would not take his own life _I_ castrated him, saw him enslaved by my very own hand.'

He lifted his stump in outrage, shoulders slouching when he looked at it, 'I was selfish,' he said, eyes not turning from the scarred remains of a once strong and powerful arm, 'Self-serving. Power-drunk.' He shook his head, fear flashing from behind the disgust in his eyes, 'I was insane. I cannot go back to being..._that man_.'

Lucinda brushed a hand across his brow, looking back at him with conplete confidence, "Then don't," she said softly, placing a hand against his chest, "Be _this man._"

He shook his head, turning to press his face against her chest, a tiny sob wracking his shoulders as he said, his fingers reluctantly forming the words, 'He and I shall always be one person.'

"No," Lucinda said, taking his face in her hands and staring him in the eyes, "**_We _**are one person."

He sighed glumly, 'I cannot speak,' his said, 'How is a man without voice to lead?'

He pulled from her, turning to his reflection with a snort. As he looked at himself his expression turned from misery to disgust.

Lucinda smiled lovingly, draping herself across the expanse of his broad shoulders, "It's okay," she said in a comforting whisper, leaning to press her lips against his neck, "I'll be your voice."


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

Naaco moved about carefully in the darkness so as not to disturb Yipip. The Sangheili slave's roommate slept in an Unggoy-shaped pile of blankets atop a small human bed on the other side of the room, thusfar undisturbed. Naaco quietly retrieved an ash grey shirt from a simple dresser and deftly slipped it over his head. The garment matched the pants he had slept in and he ran his palms over the coarse fabric to neaten it over his lank body.

It was long before morning but there were things to be done even at this hour. The thought excited him as he hastily straightened the blankets which constituted his bed, all to the gentle hiss and click of a methane rebreather in the background. Bed made, the boy retrieved a hand-sewn sachel and, looping its long strap across his neck Naaco crossed the room on cat feet. He pulled open the closet door and the hinges gave a tiny _creak. _The sleeping Unggoy did not stir.

Folding silently to his knees, the small Sangheili rummaged inside the closet. He pushed a couple of boxes aside and moved a crate of knick-knacks which he kept atop for good measure. Loosing an exposed floorboard Naaco reached into the dark opening, finding a worn and weathered box concealed therein.

Old and smelling of pungent human tobaccos, the box was composed of thick and heavy paper, _cardboard_ Amy had called it. Though there was insufficient light to make out every detail, Naaco knew the container was ornately decorated, with the words_ Sweet Williams _in looped script gracing the face. He could almost feel the image of a stately human figure, plump and rosy-cheeked and presumably with one of the box's former contents clamped between his teeth, smiling from the top of the lid in the darkness as if reassuring that the treasures inside were safe.

These were things which belonged to Naaco alone. Though the idea of personal ownership was not something he had a frame of reference for, Amy had encouraged it. She had seen him admiring so many small and discarded things which no one else wanted and, keen on keeping unwanted things herself, to the point of almost running herself out of her own room, she had generously given him the box from her own collection and suggested he keep the things which caught his eye. Though he knew instinctively from her demeanor Amy would not allow these things to be taken from him or for anyone to make an issue of the matter, Naaco was still skittishly protective of his little collection.

There were colorful shards of broken glass; a few crushed and useless jackets of various sizes from human projectile ammunition; a fork with twisted tines and a spoon with a broken handle; a copper belt buckle mottled with green spots of corrosion and several shiny buttons with broken eyelets; opaque rocks in a rainbow of muted hues; and one pristine nickel-plated coin in a flat protective square of acrylic.

He thumbed the lid and reached inside, lifting the thin, clear wedge which held an antique human coin like an insect preserved in clear amber. This was something of value: something which someone else wanted but which belonged to_ him _that he could freely trade for something _else_ he wanted.

Such a curious and exciting prospect!

Smiling to himself, Naaco tucked this treasure into a pocket. He then returned the box to its hiding place and restored the closet items to their original protective positions before slipping from the room.

With bare feet trodding silently, Naaco made his way down the hall then descended the stairs to exit the house into the darkness unnoticed.

* * *

Daniel woke slowly from the empty blackness of dreamless sleep. As he looked around, the vaguely angular and blue-grey darkness came into focus. His eyes adjusted quickly and though the moons had disappeared from the sky leaving only faint starlight seeping in through the widow, this was enough for his acute vision to pull aside the veil of night still draping the room. He rubbed his eyes, first one then the other, as he yawned. From his floor-pallet of blankets and pillows Daniel stretched his legs and felt his lower spine pop.

Beside him, Lucinda stirred. Still in the depths of slumber she sighed and scooched into his warmth, sliding a slim, pale-fleshed leg from beneath the covers and across his knee.

Daniel smiled. He could not recall how long they had remained awake with their discussion or when they had finally drifted to sleep in the early morning hours.

Rolling himself from the floor, Daniel lifted Lucinda and placed her back atop her own bed. He tucked the blankets around her as she continued to dream and brushed a ghostly kiss across her cheek before slipping from the room.

He found the house was still, shadowy and quiet as he drifted down the hall and out into the great central space. A powdery light emanated from one of the large meeting rooms and Daniel could see Kote 'Hakkamr seated alone at the room's table. Before him a mapping transmitter displayed a tight holographic image of the local region's topography. Clustered location markers and plot points, dashed lines and glyphs of strategery blinked in various muted shades as 'Hakkamr slowly turned the image with the fingertips of one hand. The young Stealth Major was sitting with his jaws propped in his other up-turned palm, elbow on the tabletop until he spied Daniel watching.

'Hakkamr rose promptly, dipping his snout in respect.

Daniel fought embarrassment. This whole notion of honorable warriors continuing to recognize _him _as deserving of their respect set shame afire in his guts.

_If they but knew what he had done…_

His immediate reflex was to wave Kote's gesture away but instead he reigned in his humiliation, not wishing to insult 'Hakkamr, and gave the other man a curt nod. Daniel then made a questioning gesture from his spot beyond the threshold and Kote immediately beckoned him in.

"I would be honored," the Stealth Major rumbled, "I apologize," he added hastily, running a palm across the back of his neck, "It was not my intention to wake anyone."

Daniel gave a snort and shook his head, brushing the concern aside. He entered the room and seated himself so as to be across from Kote. The glow of the holographic projection illuminated the tabletop in a hazy purpled aura and from the light Daniel could see copious notes jotted haphazardly on small sheets of paper which were strewn about. Classical troop movements and hypotheticals had been considered, some marked out and discarded as if 'Hakkamr had been attempting to play out variables and contemplating options.

Then, a column of words grabbed Daniel's attention. This collection was wholly incongruet. Several Sangheili names had been listed. The classical runes were written with care and were accompanied by their translations in a human letter variation and surrounded by various doodles of boredom. The list was comprised entirely of _female _names.

Kote noticed the curious lilt to his Legion Master's expression and cleared his throat, "Penny has asked me for...that is, she desires..."

Daniel quirked a scarred brow ridge and 'Hakkamr muttered low, looking away, "She hopes her offspring will be female."

As Kote silently exuded his discomfort, Daniel sat watching without expression. Finally, he carefully reached to the center of the table and lifted a pen from several scattered thereabout. Working with difficulty to appropriately arrange the tiny implement absent the ends of his fingers he drew a sheet of paper near. Taking pains to arrange the sheet to suit him and mindful of how atrocious his penmanship was likely to be, he began to carefully scrawl.

Kote watched with caution and smiled guardedly when Daniel angled the note in his direction.

'_You care much for her?' _the scarred Sangheili asked.

'Hakkamr nodded slowly, murmuring, "More than I have the right."

Kote closed his eyes as if suddenly stricken. The truth of the matter was that the more Kote had gotten to know Penny the more he had been faced with his monumental failings as a husband, as a _man. _He had spent long years doing his best not to think about his short and miserable marriage or the way it had come to an end.

The young Stealth Major shifted in his seat and sighed, searching for words. Kote knew Penny was not his _wife_ and it was not his desire to put her in that woman's place. He simply wished now to be what he had come to understand far too late that he should have been all those years before. Knowing Penny had been mistreated, and hearing some of his own angry words recounted in her story had been a dagger in his hearts.

_Penny. _Kind and gentle Penny. She had been impregnated and then made to feel solely to blame. She had been cast aside and unloved because of her conception. In perverse punishment she had been cut off from her family and denied access to midwives and proper care and treated as less than a person and more as a glorified _incubator_.

Kote found he could take little solace in knowing he had at least not taken his frustration with his bride _quite_ that far.

For Penny, when the Legion had arrived and the initial attack had provided a diversion, she had escaped and fled to her grandmother's home. Armed with weapons and passage chits, they had planned to make it to an evacuation location and from there go far away from Ambrosia II and Penny's tormenter, but that was not to be.

Kote drew a breath, "I am aware of how our…._relationship..._is regarded by many. I admit my affections for her are…_inordinate..._given our…" he paused as he continued to struggle for words, "_differences._"

The final word was said painfully and had clearly been selected with the hope that Daniel would find it acceptable and inoffensive.

The scarred man showed no reaction and simply sat looking back at his companion with a neutral expression.

'Hakkamr seemed to seep into his chair at this, "I could not help myself," he sighed, "I was…and she…" he shook his head then started in a whisper, "I..." he paused, thinking better of it, _I_ _love her, _he said to himself, unable to say the words aloud, _I love her as I should have loved my wife_.

But, Sangheili men did not say such things. Even had Kote not known his Legion Master's clan history, as every Sangheili knew of how and why the House of Berov had fallen, those were words which were simply _not_ said.

Daniel watched Kote squirm for a few tense moments then grumbled deep in his chest. He gnashed his teeth together thoughtfully and, with eyes fixed hard on the other man, flicked the sheet of paper back across the tabletop to himself with a stubbed index finger. Carefully working the pen with gnarled fingers Daniel looked down and began to scrawl with the too-small writing implement.

When he finished and slid the sheet back across, it took a few moments for Kote to work up the courage to look at what his Legion Master had written. When he did, a smile curled his mandibles.

At the bottom of the list, Daniel had added another name.

* * *

Torsch snorted awake when the sound of a rooster's crow off in the distance seeped into his sleep-deprived brain. With a fully-flared mandibular yawn, the Stealth Major hauled himself upright, lugging legs which had been stretched across and propped up on the adjacent troop seats. He let his feet drop to the deck heavily. Momentarily disoriented, 'Korid blinked and looked around as he stretched his neck from one side to the other and flexed his shoulders, joints stiff after having slept in his armor.

With a grumble, Torsch stood to stretch his arms over his head and looked out across the southern side of the complex proper as early sunrise was just beginning to lighten the horizon.

After spending most of the night out on the front checking on the entrenched and patrolling perimeter troops, he had slept for a scant few hours in the recomissioned Spirit troop bay. It would soon be a holding cell for prisoners and he would have to find quarters elsewhere but thus far no one found or bothered him there.

'Korid glanced around at the space which had become familiar in the last few nights and twitched his muzzle. He was not particularly excited about the prospect of having to find somewhere else to sleep, and was equally unenthusiastic about the prospect of a needed visit to his allotted quarters. He sucked in a deep breath through his nostrils, mustering strength he did not feel, and let the breath out as if deflating. With a resigned grunt shook his head at himself and he stepped out into the dawn.

Walking purposefully in the direction of the compound, Torsch heard the rooster call out again to the rising suns.

The morning was still fairly early and only a few people were about. As 'Korid neared the basic structures of the outer complex he could see a gaggle of exuberant puppies trailing six human soldiers who were leading horses from a barn. A nun and three civilians approached a fence which held back six waiting milking cows. Two goats, with tails twitching vigorously and mouths chewing their cud were perched atop various planes of an earth-mover and watched at their less agile and woolly-cousins were freed by an elderly man from a nearby enclosure. The sheep were summarily herded off to graze by two shaggy canines. 'Korid spied a cockerel at the peak of a thatched coup watching with a curiously side-cocked head as a nun and two civilian teens made entry into the fenced off area reserved for the female fowl. A youth pulled aside a small door and numerous plump hens with an assortment of plumage scuttled out to peck at scraps and grain and make approving clucking sounds at freedom and their breakfast. A flock of chortling guinea fowl could be heard waiting patiently in the drooping branches of a nearby tree.

Numerous of the resident animals had been seen about and collected from the immediate region. This planet had been largely agricultural in nature and farms left vacant or ill-tended following the attack were abundant in animals suitable for eating and other uses. As he understood it, many of the humans had bunkered down in outlying dwellings once strategic assault had made their escape impossible. When it became obvious no one would be leaving, haste had been made by those who survived and were able to see domesticated creatures tended to for practical purposes. From this first necessity a fledgling and tenuous system of commerce had emerged.

Not everyone who came upon or became aware of the complex had wanted to stay. There had been a fair number of those who made their homes outside the perimeter of protection and had tentative contact with the complex only for the sake of trading goods and seeing to their own immediate welfare. Whether it was fear of the resident Sangheili or the desire to make it on their own it mattered not. They traded herd animals and produce and human luxuries they had found, the likes of which the latter were unlikely to be seen in production for a long time. All of this was exchanged for any excess fuel and clean water, preserved goods and clothing, and anything else residents personally possessed which they were willing to part with or services they were able to render.

There was an established trade route and every so many days adults and the more mature youths took turns readying goods and traveling to make scheduled exchange and engage in commerce with their near neighbors. In such a short time a small community had emerged.

Civilians had been taught to can vegetables and fruits, mend clothing and weave textiles, smoke meats and cure cheeses. Some went with soldiers, human and Sangheili, and hunted the woodlands and insured the necessary quota of meats were on hand. As 'Korid had previous surmised, humans consumed far more food for their size than Sangheili, but the warriors were pleased to have an outlet with which to spend their pent-up desire to stalk and kill. This they did in a measure for themselves but also for their human companions and to further the system of exchange.

Torsch pondered the overall situation and missed none of its irony. He, the son of a farm servant; first in his maternal line in a thousand generations to _not_ derive his living from this type of existence, had found himself in such a place as this. Though his life had eventually been engineered away from such things, and his memories of that colonial homeworld were faded, this place with its scents and sounds and purpose was in its own way hauntingly familiar.

The opaque shadow of drawing morning was drifting away by the time 'Korid had passed through the small farm area and found himself facing up the central courtyard. In the center sat the construction foreman's trailer, now the office of the chief human and Sangheili in charge of working out patrol and entrenched duty schedules. To one side a stretch of residential dormitories sat between a simple chapel near the main house and a forge at the southern end with an attached garage and storage buildings which served as armories.

Along the other side of the courtyard several educational buildings generally served that use while their top floors acted as additional housing for the burgeoning population. Storage buildings of various configurations and sizes sat in a semi-orderly collection behind and contained non-perishable food stores, clothing, and various items which would have served the orphanage had it come to fruition. At the nearest end of these sat a building for washing and laundry next to the infirmary while at the farther end the refectory squatted with its expansive dining hall and accommodating kitchen.

It had taken, and continued to require, a great deal of cooperation but those in the complex were managing well.

'Korid's mind was already turning toward his own duties and another day of communications with distant but neighboring cities and military planning when Amy emerged from the forge. It caught him completely off guard. His feet faltered and for a moment he considered activating his camouflage and disappearing before she could see him.

She stopped just outside the door and toed a rock in place to prop it open. Her back to him, dressed in a thin top and snug breeches which hugged her body, Amy proceeded to yawn and stretch languidly. Long, willowy, delicate limbs reached out with grace as she curved and arched. 'Korid felt his skin go flush at the display.

A chubby orange cat lazily emerged and slinked over to Amy then rubbed himself against her booted heel. She looked down at the creature and dutifully crouched to scratch its head. A messy lock of golden hair fell from the pile atop her head and she tucked it behind an ear with a grimy hand. Her clothing and the pale skin of her fully bare arms were coated in a thin layer of gray and black sootyness.

She took no note of Torsch as he stood there with his hearts in his throat and his mind assaulted by the memory of her body in all vivid and damnably graphic detail.

For a fleeting second 'Korid could see himself setting aside how she had betrayed his trust just for the chance to linger again in her presence. Perhaps he would stop and talk to her cordially. She would say something wholly improper and it would be possible for him to snip playfully at her. She would laugh and be the woman with whom he had watched the stars. The one who knew what it was like to be hurt and used: the woman he had loved.

The woman he still loved.

She would be the Amy who had stood by him while he had mourned and ceremonially buried a part of his life he had not stopped in nearly twenty years to grieve. In this fantasy-land he could admit he missed her. Yes, and while he was at it, maybe he could admit to her how the mere sight of her still tortured the less logical parts of his mind and anatomy.

Torsch snorted.

He could just as easily have choked down his pride and heeded that pathetic little voice in his head which suggested he had made a mistake.

Instead, he stood there dumbly, seeing only a hatful _woman_; feeling like a fool as he watched Amy walk up and across the courtyard. She made her way toward the foreman's trailer utterly oblivious to the upheaval she had set loose inside him, body and soul.

When Amy had disappeared around the side of the small building 'Korid somehow managed to make his legs carry him the rest of the way to the house. There he climbed the stairs and entered his room.

He could have shut it out. He could have chosen _not _to smell _her_ there, but he had been too distracted with her memory to remember why it was he had escaped his own room. Sangheili were equipped with olfactory senses which allowed them to screen and filter, yet he had allowed himself to be assaulted by his former lover's scent.

The moment that signature registered his whole body went rigid.

Oh, he had_ tried_ to rid his quarters of all trace Amy's female odor but it was as if her aura had seeped into the very fabric of the walls. He had washed his bed linens and bleached the floor; he had scrubbed the walls and had even burned pungent spices and _still _he smelled her here.

Anger boiled over at this insult, at the foolishness he felt, at his own frustration and incompetence. Torsch stalked across the room and laid hold of the first thing he could, snatching the lamp by its curved neck and jerking the cord free of the wall. He stood there seething, lamp raised over his head with every intent of sending the delicate glass affair careening across the room.

He managed to restrain himself and instead set the article back on the table and paced. When his ire had sufficiently waned Torsch shucked his armor and changed underclothing and bodysuits, ignoring how desperately he needed to bathe. By the time he had redressed, he had calmed and sufficiently reigned in his temper so as to endure another day of chancing brief contact with Amy and ignoring her vulgarity with all the dignity and indifference he could muster.

With a sigh he exited the room and descending the stairs.

* * *

Amy sat on the metal stoop outside the foreman's trailer digging the gunk from beneath her nails with the stubby blade of a multi tool. What she really wanted was a shower, but she needed to catch Lieutenant Lovelace and Spec Ops Major 'Murtum before crashing for few hours.

She was bone tired. After the little show-and-tell in the forge the night before her inner engineering nerd had gotten the better of her. Though her recent military career had seen her focused on pipelines and plumbing and playing politics, she had all the technical knowledge that had come with ten years in the field as an engineer, followed by four years as an NCO and another two as an NCOIC working as a technical engineering advisor for water purification and sanitation systems. There was a whole lot of knowledge crammed into her head which had been left to languish thanks to her last duty assignment and she had relished getting her hands dirty again. The entire night had been spent poring over designs and ideas and sketching up actual schematics. The work had left her grimy from head to toe.

The group who had worked up the new weapons designs had soaked up everything she could teach them. Those initially present had been joined by other humans and Elites who arrived hours later. All were eager to work on their little project.

It had been an amazing diversion and one she hadn't realized she desperately needed. With all that was going on in her wreck of a personal life, working on the new weapons had given her something to focus on. The whole project had forced her to slow down and think of something other than her stinging emotions; and the building resentment she felt at the possibility of being forced into playing middle-man between the soldiers and the civilians, _again_, thanks to the tactical strategy of 'Korid, 'Varlemai, and 'Hakkamr.

As much as she didn't like it, Amy had to keep reminding herself that the Elites were right to do what they were doing, even if she couldn't convince herself it was _ethical_. It was a good plan. Hell, even her own UNSC had historically never been inclined to consider the feeling of the general populous when devising military strategy. Then again, a good chunk of that populous had had designs against the UEG so the powers that be were damned no matter what they did.

It was a moot point now anyway.

Amy shook her head and tried not to think about it. The whole idea of using people as live bait made her guts turn. It wasn't as if she had a _better _idea, but relying on a plan which drew the enemy in and hemmed it between troops currently en route from Cean and North Etienne and a wall of Sangheili warriors thirsty for blood on the outer perimeter left her wondering if she had the PR skills to quell any discontent when the dust settled. Starr was already aware that there was the beginning of restless mutterings from resident civilians at the disproportionate number of Elite soldiers living out of the complex and how they went about so openly armed. Though she didn't believe that amounted to anything more than frustrated, tired people venting, Amy felt in her heart it had the potential to all go bad quickly. Even if the people in the drifting hoard were _cannibals_, they were still _human_ and the Elites were still _aliens. _

Amy knew nothing was so cut-and-dry anymore. Then again, she wasn't exactly objective.

She puffed out a breath. The idea of how her little romance with 'Korid had come to an abrupt end no longer caused sharp pains of terminal loss and loneliness. To her amazement, she didn't feel angry. All she felt this morning was a dull ache of acceptance of their now strictly professional relationship.

Starr chewed a lip and dug at her nails, knowing that was only going to last so long_. _It galled her to no end that 'Korid had the nerve to be pissy as if she had somehow wronged_ him _in all of this. Maybe that was just how he got his jollies, she guessed; what with playing the wounded hero and using all of that shy, chivalrous charm to suck her into his game. Oh, and had she ever fallen for it. Hard. Right up until she was no longer needed to stroke his ego and he had yanked the rug out from under her.

As Amy continued to try, and failed to_ not_ think about that too much, a small-frame civilian truck was pulled up and parked at about the center of the courtyard. Behind it lagged a flat-bed trailer with make-shift, plank side-rails. While her mind had been elsewhere, several people had emerged in the early morning light and begun to neatly stack bundles and boxes, small crates and a few barrels in a neat row. Naaco was milling about as they worked to set the items on the trailer in an orderly fashion. With a ledger in his hands, the former slave was making notations and itemizing the list of things which would be taken to the south-eastern border to trade. He was keeping track of what goods were to be exchanged.

A few Elite soldiers who would accompany the truck glided near in battered Ghosts and dismounted to help while the human soldiers assigned to the compliment of mounted patrol fussed with sizeable horses. Everyone was armed to the teeth. They expected no trouble, but they intended for the point to be made that the people of this complex were not to be fucked with.

As she sat and watched, the orange striped cat wandered about begging for attention, half-heartedly puffing and batting at puppies which came too near with their rambunctiousness.

With a sigh, Amy scuffed her booted foot against the bottom step making the metal sing. The sound drew the attention of a fuzzy puppy that promptly spied her stitting there and broke off from the pack. It bounded her way, maw gaping in a wide dog-smile while its pink tongue flapped haphazardly. The pup bouncy-bounced up the steps and did graceless pirouettes at her side. Amy smiled.

Who could stay melancholy watching a puppy dance?

"That's okay," Starr said, more to console herself as she gave the wiggling ball of fur a scratch behind the ears.

The dog licked at her hands and hopped around her excitedly.

Amy laughed and dodged doggy-kisses, "Torsch 'Korid can just be an ass-hole," she said brightly.

The pup yapped as if in agreement then lunged in again for a kiss.

"Yes he can," Amy chirped as she playfully ruffled fur, "He can go on and be a big, freckly shit-head."

The puppy barked.

"Yep."

With a final yap the pup wiggled free of her grasp and bounded down the stairs. It looked back as if expecting her to follow then darted on to join its fellows while Amy sat and watched.

She resumed digging the crud from beneath her nails.

"Well, good mornin', Sergeant Starr," Lieutenant Lovelace drawled jovially as he and Major 'Murtum rounded the building.

"Morning, sir," Amy said with a yawn as she stood, folding her multi tool and tucking it into a rear pocket, "Major," she said in acknowledgement of 'Mortum.

The Elite gave her one of those courteous, elegant nods in silent greeting as Lovelace keyed the door to their office.

Inside, the small building smelled of dust and cleaners, and faintly of the must of dirt. The walls were covered in hand-drawn maps and charts of names and rank. There were lists of vehicles and assigned personnel tacked up behind Lovelace's desk. As the men arranged themselves behind their respective stations, opposite each other facing the center of the room from the length of the building, Amy flipped through a stack of paper on Lovelace's desktop which appeared to be patrol vehicles out for repair and the designated shop workers who had signed for them.

"What can we do for ya'?" the Lieutenant asked, unslinging his rifle and leaning it against the wall behind his desk and parking his paunchy bulk in a chair which squeaked in protest.

Lieutenant Alexander Lovelace was a formidable-looking man, even in khaki shorts and a Hawaiian print shirt. His dark hair was peppered liberally with silver and his square jaw had grown a bit jowly with age. In his early fifties, he had been a fifteen year veteran of the Caddo Police and Unified Sheriff's Department. His experience in making patrol schedules for an extensive department working round-the-clock had come in very handy.

Spec Ops Major Jesh 'Murtom moved about in the small space as quietly as his Elite-size would allow, making notations to one of the wall maps. He was easily eight feet tall and walked slightly crouched, big shoulders tucked in as if to make himself smaller. Exposed hide was greenish-grey and he watched Amy from the corners of deep brown eyes. He had been a Senior Drop-Ship Crew Leader and a pilot, more than familiar with keeping schedules and assuring that all duties were covered.

Starr dug in a front pant pocket and retrieved a list of names: everyone, human and Elite, who was in on making the new weapons. She set it down before Lovelace and gave it a tap, "I would like these personnel reassigned to me starting immediately with full suspension of outside duties." She glanced back to the Spec Ops Major, "For all of them, please."

It wasn't necessary for her to ask, Amy had enough standing on the military side of things to do as she damn well wanted, but she knew how and when to use common courtesy to her advantage.

The Lieutenant looked the list over, poking out his bottom lip in thought then shrugging one shoulder as he passed the scrap of paper to 'Mortum. The Elite eyed the names and gave a slight mandible flare before returning to his map.

"Done," Lovelace said.

"And, I'd like to have oh-one-seven assigned to me as well," Amy added, referring to the glitter-painted green truck no one else wanted to be caught dead in.

Lovelace grunted a laugh, "Oh, I think we can manage to part with that."

* * *

Penny moaned. It was a deep and sensuous sound that made Kote's insides tingle. He felt her muscles flexing beneath his fingers as she arched against the bed and pressed into him. She groaned wantonly and groped as if seeking purchase against pleasurable agony.

Writhing at his touch, fists balled into the sheets and knuckles blanched against the strain Penny whispered, "Oh, Kote, _yes_."

A wicked smile curled the Sangheili's mandibles. With slow and deliberate circular motions Kote applied just the right pressure and coaxed a hoarse whimper from his mate's throat. Penny sighed, wiggling her toes in 'Hakkamr's hands in appreciation as he released her foot and worked his way up her swollen ankle to massage the muscle of her calf. He brushed his fingertips against the soft flesh behind her knee and she giggled, lifting her head to look at him from across her gigantic middle as he sat at the foot of her bed.

"I really think I overdid it yesterday," she said, humming in approval and laying back as Kote grasped her other foot.

Morning had slipped into early afternoon and, as was his habit, 'Hakkamr had brought her the mid-day meal and was spending time spoiling her feet. This was not the first time she had complained of _overdoing it. _It seemed as if she complained of every load-bearing joint aching even though she did little more during the day than make numerous trips back and forth to the bathroom.

Over the last few days her belly appeared to droop lower and lower in her abdomen and she waddled with greater effort. The babies had become increasingly less active and though she slept a great deal she often cried at the lack of sustained rest at having to relieve her bladder almost constantly.

Penny was sore and tired and miserable in her own skin; and Kote would do anything in his power to ease her stress. The knowledge he could do so while eliciting those beautiful sounds from her was especially pleasant, even if it was only because he was massaging her feet.

* * *

"They use grapes in the dough mix for the natural yeast and Foxy Lady showed us how they soak starch out of potatoes and…"

Lucinda was babbling on happily, watching herself in the long ovular mirror as she tied her hair loosely back with a ribbon and regaled Daniel with details of her day. Daniel lounged as he watched her from across the room; a shoulder leaned against the wall near the door of their sleeping quarters as he waited patiently.

As she went on, a full smile across her face and her mouth going almost non-stop, Daniel realized how unnecessary his guilt had been at having left her to the care of the nuns while he and Major 'Korid had toured the outer regions of the encampment. It was clear she had spent the day well entertained in his absence. He, on the other hand, had spent his time trying not to become accustomed to the idea of scrutinizing the Sangheili warriors as they went about field-level drills and exercises on the front.

"Sister Anna told us about the salt sumps at the west end of the monestery's property where they have pipes which tap into a deposit thousands of feet underground and how they bring up salt water and let it dry in the suns and then use it to cure meats…"

Daniel smiled. Lucinda had spent her morning with Penny Larouche and the remainder of her day with a group of humans her own age being shown around the complex and engaging in their educational pursuits as overseen by the monastic sisters and a few civilian adults. While it was not expected that she would participate so soon after arrival she had clearly enjoyed the time with her peers.

"And there are horses and one of them is named _Donut_," she giggled, "Louie says the mounted patrol and some of the Elite soldiers have made up a red versus blue game a lot like polo and they play it out on the east field when they can."

She spun around, braced against her cane with one hand while twirling a lock of hair with another, "Ready?" she asked, coyly.

Daniel barked deep in his chest and grinned, then straightened and gave her a courtly bow. Lucinda beamed and crossed the room to take the proffered elbow.

Late afternoon had begun to draw long shadows across the complex and set western-facing windows ablaze with yellows and pinks. They crossed toward the refactory, Lucinda continuing to chatter all the way, clinging to the elbow of Daniel's mangled arm with both hands, her cane hooked across his forearm by its crook.

It was early yet for the second of the two evening meals and though arriving at this hour limited their menu options it had the benefit of giving them the opportunity to dine somewhat alone. As hoped, they found the cafeteria virtually empty save staff whose noise came as a low din from the kitchen. A few warriors sat conversing in the low register of their shared native language over empty bowls.

The Sangheili of the compound had worked out schedules of eating, taking one, perhaps two meals a day as physical activity necessitated at differing times so as not to burden the cooking staff and allow time for resources of meats to be adequately replenished in between. Largely carnivores, the abundance of starchy and carbohydrate-laden foods preferred by the humans reduced the Sangheili's consumption heavily. Their bodies wasted virtually nothing and for them it was simply not necessary to eat as much or as often as their human counterparts. Due to patrol and overwatch schedules, the warriors would eat at this hour in greatest number.

Just as the evening before following their arrival, Daniel and Lucinda served themselves form the simmering iron pot before taking seats as far away from the others as possible. Deléon tore chunks of bread and dropped them into her bowl. She had yet to stop talking, filling in the details of and rehashing much of what he had already been appraised.

He so enjoyed hearing her talk.

On the lengthy tour, 'Korid had told him how, of the nearly twenty-five hundred who lived at the Saint Vincent's complex, _all _had responsibilities to attend to. Even the children. Security details were taken largely by the Sangheili and human soldiers and were well established. Much of the work which necessarily took people outside the protective fold of the compound was performed by soldiers or escorted under heavy guard. Hunting, searching for weapons and the like, scavenging surrounding territories, scouting, making contact with other groups who offered trade and had settled nearby and so forth was well protected.

Those not yet of the age of majority were expected to participate in semi-structured learning environments which furthered basic living skills. While adults performed the bulk of the necessary work, children and youths worked alongside them and were taught how to track, hunt, fish, trap, and tend livestock; to kill and clean food animals. Daniel had learned that several of the warriors assisted in the latter endeavor quite eagerly.

The humans were surprisingly resourceful. They knew all manner of ways in which to preserve meats and process dried goods and the foods they traded with those nearby who had settled to tend abandoned farms.

They prepped spent projectile casings gathered or traded by others and were educated in the proper way in which to reload these small bits of arsenal. They tended to weapons and armor; and manufactured more rudimentary weapons suitable for hunting. They made soaps and candles and tanned hides. They learned how to mend and create garments and were taught to cook and prepare grains. They learned how to cultivate the land and procure wood and maintain water sources. Waste was managed and utilized appropriately. All of this was done while also educating the young and the unfamiliar in the art of combat and field medicine taught in accordance with what was found to be age appropriate.

It was with one of these groups which Lucinda had spent a portion of her afternoon learning to make bread and render starch and becoming acquainted with resident equines.

When they had finished eating, and humans and Sangheili began filling the hall, Daniel and Lucinda exited the refactory into the darkening evening. The air was peaceful and as they walked the length of the courtyard at a leisurely pace Lucinda hooked her cane over Daniel's forearm and wrapped both arms around his elbow and beamed up at him.

They had made almost a full circuit of the complex: down the southern stretch from the refactory to education buildings which served partially as residences; skirting the infirmary and wash area and crossing over to pass the front of the forge and the garage; then on up the northern side they went where children fussed and played in the last dwindling daylight in the dirt before the dormitories. They had paused at the chapel gate so that Lucinda could admire ornate stained-glass windows when a utility truck ambled up the far drive from the perimeter road.

The dust covered vehicle lumbered to a stop before the infirmary and a travel-ragged team of Spec Ops Sangheili disembarked the bed. Daniel saw Torsch 'Korid step out of the white-washed building followed by nuns who flocked to the vehicle. Two of the captives were ambulatory and climbed unassisted and unrestrained from the truck bed. They moved amongst their captors as if weary and sore of feet and made no attempt to frustrate their capture.

Lucinda furrowed her brow and Daniel let himself be led as she began curiously drifting that way.

A third man with hands bound together and ankles hobbled was shown little consideration as he was hauled roughly from the truck. This captive was muzzled, his bonds secured to a length of cord wound around his waist. His eyes twinkled and he growled and lunged against a tether toward the clutch of holywomen with a snarl. They scattered and shied away with audible gasps. The captive could be heard laughing around his gag like a madman. He snorted and snickered and continued being merry even when his primary charge gave the tether round his scrawny neck a sharp jerk sending him to his back in the dirt.

As Daniel and Lucinda approached, people stepped from the refactory and residents emerged and clustered in the dormitory doorways to watch the spectacle. Garage workers wiping their grease-stained hands on rags appeared in gaping bay doors. Amy stood with a group of humans and Sangheili lingering outside the forge. Stealth Major 'Korid folded his arms and shifted his feet, looking out at the growing audience with sour disapproval.

General 'Varlemai glided up from between buildings on a Ghost and Sangheili not involved who had any designs of gawking slunk back. 'Varlemai's men snapped to attention as he dismounted and even the mad laughter of their apparently most troublesome captive, still writhing and attempting to right himself on the ground, died to silence. The others cowered where they stood. Major 'Korid grunted and smirked and only the nuns ignored the General's imposing presence.

In battle armor, minus his helm, Dak 'Varlemai stood ten and half feet tall. His face was a rigid mask of hard angles and masculine features that framed deep copper colored eyes. From the tips of his lower mandibles had erupted sharp fangs which were pearly white and at odds with his charcoal skin. 'Varlemai rarely spoke and when he did he did so carefully. Most who did not know him took this as some indication of mental defect, but Daniel, and every other man who had the privilege of serving in the General's military orbit knew otherwise. Dak was _lethal_, in a way few adult male Sangheili would ever be able to claim.

Without a word Dak doffed his crested helm and captured it in the crook of his arm. He looked down at the bound man now kneeling in the dirt. The human stared up as if the gravity of the situation has just then dawned on him. 'Varlemai turned his penetrating gaze and let it graze over the other untethered men as the nuns huddled over and fussed with someone still lying in the bed of the truck.

Daniel and Lucinda approached to hear the file leader answer the question there was no need for Dak to voice, "These three," the Spec Ops Major motioned to the two who stood with faces down-turned in fear then gestured toward the truck, "have been most cooperative."

'Varlemai grunted and turned to look at the man who on his knees was trying to inch away.

"And _this one_," the file leader reached for the captive's leash and hauled him forward choking before sending him down on his belly with an _oof_, "_He has much to say,_" the file leader snarled.

With the nuns' help, an older human with silver hair finally sat up in the bed of the truck. He carefully scooted and swung a bare and broken foot clear of the rear bumper as he winced. Daniel felt Lucinda's hands momentarily tighten around his forearm and found himself compelled forward. Moving as one, they imprudently broke the formation cutting between 'Varlemai and his men. The General startled and the others stepped back and looked on as if uncertain how to handle this sudden inobservance to basic military decorum.

Lucinda was oblivious and loosed Daniel's arm as they neared the truck. She stumbled and brushed past the nuns to fling herself at the injured captive with a joyous sob.

"_Papa_!"


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

Sergeant First Class Amy Starr drew herself a cup of coffee from a large industrial carafe and paused to take in the rich aroma. She brought the cup to her nose and inhaled deeply, letting the fresh, dark texture work its fragrant magic. Around her, the refactory's dining area was mostly deserted, save Sister Margaret, who was sweeping along a far wall, and members of Starr's own team who milled about as they readied their late evening meals.

They had arrived too late for a proper dinner. By the time they had reached a collective stopping point for the day, and wandered from the forge to make their way through the refactory's front doors, the meal had been cleared and the smell of a frying rue permiated the air. The open dining area was semi-orderly: tables wiped, chairs neatly put away. The nuns and civilian workers in the kitchen could be heard chattering and stirring and chopping as they readied the leftovers for the stewpot.

Stealth Minor N'Rule 'Salak had venture into the kitchen to see if there was anything he could sweet-talk the nuns into letting him have other than stew. Currently, Spec Ops Rangers Jhett 'Xdan and Phulu 'Waaren stood one on each side of the door which led into the kitchen. They were watching N'Rule as if the man had just walked willingly into a pit of vipers.

Amy sipped her coffee and smiled, strolling slowly past those of her team happy to gather their meal from the stewpot.

"The Jiralhanae have always been jealous of the Sangheili," Spec Ops Minor Vae 'Barcaam was saying.

He took hold of the ladle and gave the stew a stir.

"And, why is that?" Amy heard Locket ask. The young woman selected a few rolls from the nearby basket, placing one on the edge of her tray before stacking a few on Trice's.

Vae shrugged his mandibles, "They saw the universe and their place in it as somehow unjust."

"They did not like that our people were so favored by the Hierarchs," Stealth Minor Telam 'Regesh added firmly.

Locket and Cory shared a smile, "Rightly?" Locket sang.

Telam snorted, "They are backward...and dangerous." He paused, "Clearly. They never had an appreciation for acting in accordance with their station."

Vae nodded slowly, filling his bowl, "And, between us, all things being correlative, it seems evolution endowed even the best of their warriors with embarrassingly small..."

Telam interrupted with a forced, guttural grumble, eyes darting from Vae to Locket and back, "There is a _female_ present," he hissed.

Vae blinked. "Brains," he said blandly, arching a brow ridge as he passed his comrade the ladle, "They have embarrassingly small _brains."_

Trice gave the Elites a goofy grin and Locket giggled as she and Cory ambled off.

Amy sauntered along behind them, cutting Vae and Telam a smart look and shaking her head.

Over the course of the afternoon and evening she had learned a few relevant facts. For starters, men were pretty much the same the galaxy over. If a comment could be turned into sex, it damn sure would be.

Secondly, much like infants, junior enlisted, human and Sangheili, were not to be lift without adult supervision. Ever. A woman steps out to answer nature's call and decides to stretch her legs with a stroll through the stable, idles for a few moments too long with the horses, and she comes back to find her crew has gotten sidetracked, all of them, even the ever responsible N'Rule, and are working on building themselves a potato gun.

Still, Amy felt good about the afternoon's progress. Good about doing old fashioned work. With her hands. With a team...potato gun and all.

Starr sipped at her coffee, slowly approaching the table where Peach, PFC Kurt Jordan, and Stealth Minor Eeth 'Garen were seated. As she ambled passed, Peach eased in and Jordan leaned across the table and whispered, "You mean to tell me..." he hunkered down and shielded his mouth with a cupped hand as if about to reveal state's secrets, "...you're a _virgin?"_

Amy nearly choked, catching herself before she could send coffee spewing out her nose. _"Jordan!"_ She caughed as she recovered.

The tattooed private looked at her wide eyed and pointed at Eeth.

The Elite scowled.

"That's so _hot,"_ Peach said dreamily.

Jordan startled, screwing up his face and giving her a dirty look.

Eeth paled.

Amy rolled her eyes in the manner of long suffering and turned to square off to them, "Settle down," she admonished, turning to Eeth, "You too, Eeth."

**_"Me!"_** the Stealth Minor protested.

"You heard me," Starr quipped, a smile playing at her lips, "And, Peach, I heard they got the ice machine running today, don't make me stuff you in it."

The young woman crinkled her nose as Amy drifted away blowing on her coffee.

That was another thing soldiers and young adults the galaxy over had in common, they loved to give each other a hard time. Of course, cultural differences made that a bit difficult, but during the past several hours of hard work even the Elites had enjoyed sharing stories of their personal exploits. Most likely exaggerated. And, it turned out, that was _also_ something which was the same the galaxy over.

Stepping out onto the refactory's front porch Amy risked taking another sip of her coffee.

The evening was cool. And though the suns had slipped below the horizon the sky was still alight to the west, casting drifting clouds in shades of orange and silver. Amy drew a breath and smiled. It had been a productive first day, even though she had not expected her team to really take form so quickly. Apparently Lieutenant Lovelace and Major 'Murtom had gotten the word around and everyone she had requested had shown up at the forge to at least check in. Most had stayed to put in some solid work while the few coming off patrol rotations had been sent to take much needed personal time.

Aaron Fitzgerald and Zeke Tibbidoux had stopped by for an hour or so after their schooling. The boys were barely fifteen and though they had proven their mettle in helping Major 'Korid and the others to bring Grand-mama and the children safely to the complex, along with aiding in creating the new weapon prototype, they had duties elsewhere. Much to their dismay, Amy would not ask that they be excused from their regularly scheduled education. They were allowed and encouraged to participate but not at the expense of foundational life-skills, boring as they might seem.

Amy envied how they seemed able to forget the current global situation.

_Ah, youth, _she thought.

A door creaked open somewhere at the head of the complex and several sets of feet noisily descended steps. Amy turned to see Special Operations General Dak 'Varlemai and Stealth Major Torsch 'Korid making their way from the main house. The Elites were followed out the door by Corporal Allison Winnefrid, PFC Beauford Smith, and Trooper Peter Andrews. Amy let her eyes follow the procession and sipped at her coffee. 'Korid looked like he was ready to spit fire. His hands were balled into fists, mandibles drawn into tight lines, eyes fixed on his objective.

The party slowly dispersed without ceremony and the Elites mounted Ghosts. While they glided down the courtyard and headed down the worn path which led out to the perimeter road the humans strolled toward the refactory.

"Corporal," Amy called, giving the burly young woman a nod as the trio mounted the steps.

Winnefrid waved the others on and hung back, "We missed you at the comms meeting," she offered, her eyes concerned but slightly accusing, "Both of them."

A silence lingered, then, "Yeah," Amy sighed, looking down into her cup, "I had_...stuff_ to do."

_Wow,_ Starr thought, realizing that excuse sounded like a giant cop-out now that it had made it out of her head.

Winnefrid didn't immediately respond. Instead she propped a thick, rather masculine shoulder against a wall and tugged at the band securing her ponytail. She raked her fingers through the dish blonde mass then began to resecure it.

"Both?" Starr asked, setting her cup aside on the porch rail.

Winnefrid snorted, "Yeah, its really been a _day,_ Sarge." The woman drew a deep breath and, giving her ponytale a final tug, settled againet the wall, folding her arms and looking out as the sinking suns backlit the eastern complex with fire. "First, the boys and girls from Cean and North Entinne checked in early this afternoon as per usual. Before 'Varlemai's team showed up with the prisoners. At that time the folks with North E reported a crossing at the Old Trammel bridge so they're set to kick the berm within the next couple of days. Forward recon confirmed the cannibal freaks had a trail on 'Varlemai's team. Recon followed this trail back to the freaks who are currntly camped out about eight miles to our west-northwest on Wesley Mill Road. We were looking all set to put the crunch on them within the week as planned, then one of the Elite recons checked in talking about what he called the _Shaking Sickness."_ The corporal blew out a breath, "Full stop."

Amy arched a brow, "Shaking Sickness?"

"Yeah, long story short: 'Hakkamr about flipped his shit." She hooked a thumb toward the main house, "Kill it with fire, that whole thing."

"What do they think's going on ?" Starr asked, turning to brace a hip against the porch rail.

The corporal ran a hand across her mouth, "That's why we had the second comms pow-wow. We needed to get some more medically educated minds in on this." Winnefrid shrugged a shoulder, "Nothing's for sure, but the doc at Cean got on the horn talking about spongy-something-or-other-encephalitis. Apparently it's a pretty nasty fungal, viral, bacterial, all-in-one doomsday type thing. Comes from eating rotten meat and drinking contaminated water. Historically and specifically tied to cannibalism. Rots the brain. Takes out a person's ability to tell right from wrong. Like in the old cartoon where they guy looks at his buddy and sees a big ol' steak wearing a hat."

_"Shit,"_ Amy muttered.

Winnefrid nodded, "Yeah, doc says it hasn't been heard of in a couple hundred years, at least not outside of a textbook. Spreads like wildfire. It would only take one person deaperate enough to pick it up, say, from nibbling a rancid bit of someone he or she stumbled across. Either way, within days the shakes start, a little tremble in he hands. Within a week the brain gets so rotten seizures kick in. Maybe they just keel over, or maybe someone sees an opportunity, because at this point for some out there meat's meat, right? A group of people with a taste for other people comes along and _b__lamo,_ there you have it. If associated blood or fluids contaminate other food or a carrier sneezes...well, given a big enough group...you get the idea. I mean, how long do think it's been since _any_ of those freaks have washed their hands?"

"What's the plan now?"

A wicked smile crept across Winnefrid's face, _"Kill it with fire."_

"That's it?"

"Yep. Doc say's that's all we can do."

"So, all of those people have no hope," Amy said in disbelief.

"I didn't make the rules, Sarge," Winnefrid said, "If I did I damn sure wouldn't be here. My ass'd be on a beach back on Earth, umbrella drink in my hand while a Spartan-esque cabanna boy wearing nothing but a smile fans me with a giant palm frond. Besides, you wanna' take the chance the doc's wrong? You'd have to go through 'Hakkamr. And, good luck with that. After what the doc said in there just now, 'Hakkamr was ready to go all One Man Army on the freaks. You and I both know he'd turn himself inside-out to protect Penny. Anyhow, battle plans got altered. 'Korid and 'Varlemai are headed to the front as we speak. They're pulling the humans back, pushing the Elites farther forward, setting a decontamination zone, recalling all projectile weapons. Plasma only. Me and Smitty'll be rounding up some soldiers to get enough fuel tanked up so the 'leets can scorch the area once the fighting's over. And, North E brought a Wraith to the party, so that'll come in handy."

Starr rubbed her forehead, "So, all of those people...they're all dead already. Even the innocent ones."

"Yeah," Winnefrid said softly, "Just like you told us about the ones on the road to get here."

Amy cursed under her breath. She didn't like the reminder of having had to make that decision. Seeing the scars down Winnefrid's face everyday was reminder enough. "Any decision on the prisoners 'Varlemai's men brought in?" Starr changed the subject.

The corporal chuckled, wagging her head as she looked down and hooked her thumbs into the chest rig of her plate carrier, "Boy, did you ever miss out on some fireworks there."

"Oh?" Amy asked.

Starr had quickly turned away from the sideshow happening in the courtyard earlier that afternoon out of pure disgust. Sure, one of the captives had seemed bat-shit crazy and completely off his nut. But, could she really say she wouldn't have been the same in his situation?

No. She probably would have been just as crazy, if not more so, and seeing the Elites jerking a mentally disturbed man around had been more than Amy could take.

"You should'a seen it," Winnefrid laughed softly, "Right about as me and Smitty rolled into the infirmary, this Sister Rachel Marie shows up from the monastery. That one ass-bag, Donnovan Jones, well, he wanted to get wiley so she just popped him in the ass with a horse tranquilizer. He's probably gonna' be out for _days_. And, man, did that little woman ever give Major 'Korid a what-for. Scared the crap out of Smitty. Then, she up and puts the whole Elite bunch out on their ears. All but Daniel. Tells 'em she'd better not see their faces again before first light. It was pretty epic. I half expected her to get a switch and start whipping behinds. Needless to say, the Elites high-tailed it out of there. 'Varlemai's team split like their asses were on fire."

Amy hummed in acknowledgement, the image of Torsch being chewed out by a nun bringing a smile to her face.

Winnefrid mused, "You know, instead of Spartans, the UNSC could have saved themselves a lot of creds and effort if they had just started recruiting nuns."

The women shared a soft laugh at that. The Sangheili as a whole seemed more than a little unsettled by the monastic Sisters. More male Sangheili cultural baggage, Amy supposed. But good baggage.

"Where are they with all of that?" Starr asked, not sure she wanted to hear it.

"About to start a whole new rebellion."

Amy furrowed her brows.

"Andrews is trying to help us keep a lid on it. The thing is, I think people actually could have been okay with the idea of snatching up some folks form near the city and seeing what information we could pry out of them. But, I don't know how well its gonna' go over when word really gets out that one of the someone's they managed to snatch is Hagart Deléon. And it _will_ get out. There were enough looky-loos out on the lawn this afternoon who got an eye full. Hell, half the civvies here were Caddo Rebels..."

"Wait, Hagart Deléon?" Amy interrupted, something about the name setting off an alarm for reasons other than she had once sat at the table of politics with the man.

"Yep. Turns out, he's Lucinda's father."

Amy's heart fell into her boots and she barely managed to rasp, _"What?"_

"And the other two..."

"I'm sorry," Amy interrupted, "Enjoy your chow, corporal," Starr said as she turned sharply and descended the steps before setting off toward the infirmary.

* * *

"You're up late," Penny's sleep addled words greeted softly.

Stealth Major Kote 'Hakkamr couldn't help the smile that broke out across his face as he quietly entered the room. Concerns of the day released their hold on his hearts and melted away at seeing her safe and unknowing.

Moonlight spilled through an open window framing Penny in a pillar of silver-blue. A gentle breeze slow-danced the sheer curtains and a faint chorus of singing insects trickled into the sanctuary she shared with him. From the open window, somewhere in the distance, there was the intermittent cough of a human patrol vehicle as it puttered along in the summer night.

"My apologies," he rumbled, dismissing the twinge of guilt at keeping her waiting. Like mid-day foot rubs, pre-sleep talks were another of their mutually anticipated daily rituals.

Kote crossed the room and eased closed the door which separated their room from Grand-mama's, shutting out the intermittent sound of the elder woman's feathery snoring. He turned and wordlessly began removing his armor. Penny slid ponderously from her bed and he stepped near, pausing long enough to lend her an arm. Penny waddled out for what was likely her hundred and third trip that day to relieve her bladder as he continued undressing.

He was shedding his bodysuit when she returned. Half way across the room she paused suddenly, a grimace contorting her face as her breath audibly caught and she pressed a hand deeply to her pelvis.

Kote froze, "What is it?" he asked, stepping to her, upper bodysuit hanging like a shed skin from his waist.

"It's nothing," Penny said, her voice strained as she took a timid step, reaching to stedy herself against his outstretched arms. Kote helped her across the room. She eased her bulk gingerly down onto the large sofa which flanked her bed and constituted 'Hakkamr's sleeping accomidations. Penny exhailed slowly, leaning back. Then, with an _eep _of pain she rocked forward and tried to wiggled out of obvious discomfort.

"I will get Grand-mama," 'Hakkamr snorted, turning for the door.

"No, don't," Penny insisted, "It's only...oh, _oww_." She doubled over as much as her size would allow.

Kote straightened, "I will go get the Sisters," he said nervously.

"No... no...sit." Penny pleaded, easing herself back. "I'm fine. It's just...so close to..." her words drifted off even as her features began to relax.

The Elite eyed her with great concern for a few moments. Then, she drew in and let out a slow breath and seemed to recover herself. "My body's just...sorta'...getting ready." She smiled up at him weakly. "Get dressed. Sit with me." She patted the seat next to her in invitation.

Against his better judgment, 'Hakkamr relented and reluctantly went back to stripping of his bodysuit. Watching her out of the corner of his eye, he hurredly dressed in loose linen pants then joined her there on his couch. Penny snuggled into him and settled with her head against his bare chest.

Moments ticked by.

Penny smiled and hummed a contented sould as Kote began to let his hands roam the tight swell of her abdomen, "There won't be many more nights like this," she whispered. "This might even be the last one."

"You believe so?" He asked.

Her head bobbed up and down sharply a few times.

Kote's mouth curled into a loving smile and he purred happily as he brushed her cheek with his mandibles. Penny squeezed his forearm, fingers crawling, searching until she could twine her hand in his. He knew she was scared. Terrified. But she kept the feelings held back for her own sake. Her own sanity. Still, he knew. And he was frightened also.

"Nothing will make me so happy," he said dreamily, choking back his concerns, "as to see you holding your offspring. To be an Uncle to your children."

More silence, then Penny's voice, "Isabelle Chreae."

"And Abigail Shreae", Kote answered, letting the names, human and Sangheili, which Penny had settled on, at least for today, linger in the air around them. "But, what if they are male?" He finally asked.

"They won't be," Penny placed a hand over hear heat, "I just know." She tapped her chest, "In here."

Kote smiled deeply at the sincerity in her words but said nothing. Penny had been a twin. Her mother had been a twin. Grand-mama had been a twin. And so on. Though she had once said she never planned to have children of her own, Penny was, as the last remaining of her lineage of childbearing years, and finding herself, though unwittingly, in this condition, hopeful of doing her part to continue a type of female legacy.

Penny shuttered in Kote's arms and knew the emotions had begun to overwhelm her as she quietly started to cry.

_"Shhh..."_ he murmured into her ear, drawing his arms around her as tightly as he dared.

"I...I'm n-not sure 'm r-ready," Penny squeaked, a heavy French inflection leaking into her voice as it did when she was upset.

"Of course you are," he crooned, despite his own sense of dread.

Mammalian childbirth was physically traumatic. What Grand-mama had explained of it to him, before he had clamped his palms over his ear buds to shut her words out, was truly awful. He was not certain how he would be able to endure witnessing Penny go through that, twice, but he would.

Still cradling her, Kote let a hand drift up from her belly and he fumbled with the beads which Penny kept looped around her neck. He gathered the strand with his fingers until he could turn the small crucifix in his palm, "Your Warrior God will protect you, no?" He tried.

Penny hiccupped a laugh.

He was not offended. She had tried to explain to him her religion, that which she shared with Grand-mama and the nuns and many of the other humans. But some things simply defied translation. The Elites regarded, and some insisted on referring to the human nuns as Priestesses, as this was the closest equivalent across Sangheili cultures which they could equate them to. The women held a revered status in their own religion, and they lived in varying degrees of seclusion depending on their devotion. Even those who did not share their religious beliefs treated them with respect because of their status. But, that was generally as far as things translated directly.

Like their Sangheili counterparts, these nuns dressed in a shade of red from head to foot. This was a color reserved for royalty, including the Priestesses who dwelled in the Forerunner Temples of the homeworld and colonies. Unlike the Elite women, the nuns were not concerned with adornment. They wore no jewelry, and their clothing was sufficient of its own accord. Simple. Plain. Kote had seen Sangheili Priestesses once, as a young man, just before he was to report for War College and while accompanying his mother about the famed and sprawling market at Iruiru. The women had been there with an ountorage of seasoned warriors, eunuch guards in ceremonial armor with weapons which were most adsuridly not. The women's garments had been sufficient only in that they had kept their bodies alluringly covered while allowing tantalizing glimpses of what was concealed. Dresses of dark red had shimmered and peeked from beneath thick robes of the same tinkling with dangling charms of precious metals set with jewels. Heavy, floor length cloaks of near black embroidered with gold and copper threading swirled about them. Though their heads had been concealed from the sun's rays and prying eyes by the cloaks' soft fur hoods, one woman had turned, smiling in that joyful way young nobles are want. As she had pushed aside her hood a face was revealed, bedecked with rows of sparkling hooped rings pierced through the dermis of her mandibles and brow ridges. Intricate cerimonial tattooing covered her head and neck, disappearing across her shoulders beneath her garments. The fingers of her hands had been set with heavy rings bearing Forerunner runes and around her wrists were thick, heavy gold bracelets gaudily adorned. It occurred to him then that what when forged from simpler metal was a symbol of slavery of one form was, when forged from gold and set with expensive stones was the symbol of another sort of unending servatude. Though, he was sure females would cringe that such a parallel would _ever_ be drawn. It was the highest honor that a woman been chosen to serve in the temples. Only those with the noblest of bloodlines were chosen. And of them, only those of the greatest beauty. They would serve the will of the Forerunners by insuring the continuation of those lines, breeding only with the most honorable of warriors and nobility to produce offspring in kind.

Thankfully, Kote had remembered himself and averted his eyes before anyone had caught him staring that day. A common man, let alone a gangly pubescent boy who was barely a cadet, should not be caught looking too long at such women.

That was another thing...where Sangheilei Priestesses were extremely _experienced_ women, reserved for the pleasure of the greatest warriors and most honorable of nobility, the human nuns were _chaste,_ reserving themselves for the son of their god. Set aside the _enormity _of the entire quandary, which was more than Kote could begin to understand what with this Christ surrendering himself to his enemies and being executed with and in the manner of common criminals in order to somehow save his people, but...what would the son of a god, this mighty warrior who could speak to and command other planes of existence, who had in his followers eyes the Name above all names...what would such a man wish with unpracriced and _virgin_ women?

Penny took the crucifix from his hand and pressed it to her lips, muttering into the icon, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..." her words trailed off and Kote saw her face draw up and tears spilled down her cheeks.

"I will fear no evil," he intoned softly, brushing the tears away with his mandibles, "for thou art with me."

Penny's face twisted into a smile and she turned to look up at him, love shining in her eyes, "_Oui," _she whispered.

It was her religion, not his, but he had heard her say the words many times. He knew it brought her comfort, had brought her comfort during the darkest of times in her life, helped her see the beauty in her current circumstance. He envied her that. Religion of any kind had not been a priority in his mother's house and he himself had nothing beyond token claims of belief in the Forerunners as gods which all warriors avowed with varying sincerity for Covenant service. Which left him with nothing now.

Penny let out a sigh through her tears, letting the beaded rosary fall back into place around her neck, "I'm ready to have my body back," she said, more to cheer herself.

"Mmmm," Kote rumbled playfully, letting his mandibles graze the curve of dark, naked flesh where her gown had slipped and barred the swell of her shoulder, "As am I."

Penny giggled, shaking her head as she bunted an elbow against his stomach.

* * *

The lights in the main ward of the infirmary were dimmed, leaving only the egg-shaped sconces on the far walls to send wedges of light up to cast bright semi-circles of illumination on the ceiling. There was one nun on duty, a Sister Camille Eloise who was caught in the eerie light of a desk lamp as she sat in the back of the room dutifully completing hand-written charts at a curved nurses station. Charles Deléon and Lance Mariotti were sleeping peacefully, each resting atop hospital cots. Donnovan Jones was sprawled spread-eagle atop his bunk, arms dangling form the sides and dirt crusted boots dripping laces toward the floor. Hagart Deléon lay with his injured foot propped up on several pillows, his blue-black toes peeping from between the layers of water based ammonium nitrate gel packs which swaddled the swollen flesh. His ankle was hopelessly damaged, though it was possible he might walk again. As it was, without adequate medical facilities, there was nothing the nuns could do to repair the damage though they were certain it was fractured, many times. The joint would eventually fuse in position, all they could do was insure it did so at a functional angle while relieving the associated swelling and pain with their meager supplies.

Hagart seemed completely unconcerned with such things. Aside his bed another cot had been drawn and Lucinda lay canted atop her own temporary bed, her head resting in her father's hand as they looked at one another, both with eyes red-rimmed and glassy with the remnant of tears and the exhaustion which comes after slow hours of shedding them. They were beyond speaking. There were no words for their joy at being reunited, and for their sorrow at their losses and travails.

Daniel stood leaning against a wall of the outer atrium. Between the front entry doors and the long window which looked directly into the ward, and situated directly across this atrium from him, Saint Vincent de Paul looked back at Daniel with wooden eyes. The statue had been carved from the poorly selected and gnarled trunk of a tree. All over, the grain had pulled apart leaving thin cracks to mar the likeness. The paint was faded and chipped, worn completely off in places. Saint Vincent did not seem to mind. Atop his small lacquered table, clothed in his thick wooden garments, the patron of charity held fast to the children in each arm as he looked across the atrium at Daniel.

Silhouetted against the relative light of the ward, Amy Starr stood in the darkness of the atrium looking in through the expansive pane. She had been there for nearly an hour. Hands folded into the small of her back, not moving, not speaking, barely seeming to breathe.

Daniel had watched her enter and take up her long vigil and in the silence they had stood gazing into the ward. Daniel would not leave without Lucinda, and she had early on made it quite clear she would not be removed from her father's side so soon.

The nuns had been most accomidating...and protective...

Amy's voice broke through his thoughts though it came out as barely a whisper, managing to fill the room with her sorrow, "I was younger than Lucinda when my father died," she said.

Daniel simply let his eyes flick to her, their reflective surfaces sparkling against the darkened side of the window. He was uncertain if she required a response.

He did not know this woman, but the few occasions he had interacted with or seen her in action she seemed to project a warrior's aura. Strong. Alert. Competent. Both the human and his Sangheili warriors treated her with a measure of respect. Her words by all accounts...

Daniel clenched his mandibles and silently cursed himself for letting it slip back into his mind that these were _his_ soldiers. Taking a deep, cleansing breath he folded his arms across his chest and turned his face to her. She was still gazing into the ward, one hand easing from her back to rest fingertips against the pane.

"There were days...weeks at a time when all I could think about was what it would be like to have him back. I would lock myself in his office and just breathe in the smell of stale cigars, lay my head against his chair to try to catch the scent of his calogn on the leather. When we moved out of the house on Beckerbee and to a smaller one on 17th, memories of him and thoughts of him showing up on our doorstep were my safe place. I imagined him beating the hell out of Todd and taking me away, far from my mother. Even as an adult I sometimes caught myself thinking I heard his laughter, would find myself chasing his ghost if someone in a crowd was wearing his aftershave or smoking his brand of cigar."

She let her fingers slide down the window leaving faint streaks, "Every time," she said whistfully "...with every thought...this...this is what I saw when I imagined finding him somehow alive. _This_ is what it always looked like."

Her hand drifted back to rest in the cup of her other palm. She straightened, saying more clearly, "He was a soldier, you know."

No, Daniel had not known, but he was in no position to say so.

"A Major. With the 186th Military Police. He was always getting deployed to one civil uprising or another, sometimes local, most times he'd be gone for months." She paused, a sigh heaving her body as she stared on through the glass, "They sent him to Eudora when I was nine." Another pause, "He never came back. They killed him. The same kind of people Lucinda's father has been training and arming, leading and fighting beside...those are the people who killed _my_ father."

Anger inflected the last of her words and she stood again in silence letting the implications linger.

Daniel lifted himself from the wall and his bare feet thumped against the wood floor as he stepped to join her.

"He's the reason I joined the Army. To feel close to him. To understand. His memory is the reason I was okay with getting desked and working as a liason between the UEG and the people here. I thought...hoped that if I did my job right...I could save at least one little girl out there the heartache of losing _her _father the way I lost mine."

She turned to him then, "And even after all of that...I don't have it in me to hate the man laying in there enough to...to be okay with what 'Korid wants to allow 'Varlemai to do. No matter how much sense in makes."

Something in her eyes changed. A harness, a pain fuelled rage Daniel had no way of being prepared for. It was as if she could see through him. "You could stop him." She said heavily.

Daniel struggled to swallow. _No, _he thought, _It is not my place, do not ask this of me..._

He began to shake his head, steeling himself against the soul-penetrating sharpness of her gaze.

She took a half-step toward him. It was a threat and it took all his strength to draw himself up instead of backing away, "I never forgave my mother," she said, "I can't. Not just because of what she let happen to me, but because what she didn't do stole all I had left of him. Because what she didn't do made me question...made me wonder, what kind of man could love a woman like that? What kind of man did that make my father? All that was good about him...all I remembered...all I had left of him was tainted. The rebels killed him but she..._she _took him away from me."

Daniel shifted uncomfortably.

Amy pointed into the ward, her eyes still locked on his, boring through him, "One day Lucinda will wake up and look at you and she'll realize you could have stopped this. She'll know, deep in her heart, that it was really _you._ Torsch 'Korid may give the word and Dak 'Varlemai my be the executioner, but she'll figure it out. They may kill him, but in the end it'll be _you_ who takes him away from her."

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving her words to haunt him.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage **

"When they report, have Cory and the others work on getting the A frame ready to set in the back of the truck. If you and the guys get anything else up for testing there's a stash of unserviceable armor in connex fourteen-oh-eight out behind the stables that can be set up for zeroing. Aaron and Zeke didn't have class today, so I okayed them checking out the bobcat and going out with Jhett and Phulu to push up an actual berm for us. We'll need it once the chain gun gets online. I don't care where everyone is in their work, last dinner call, that's your notice to round everyone up and close shop for the night."

N'Rule nodded, strolling at Amy's side. The suns had neard the meridian and beat down on them as they walked the dusty midline of courtyard and she issued hasty instructions.

Naaco followed a few steps behind.

Amy continued, "I know that's a lot of daylight to sacrifice and not much time this afternoon and evening to work but, hopefully, it'll only be for this one day."

They passed the refactory. The lunch crowd had already begun gathering. People loitering out in the shade of the building's porch looked their way, eyes following them, suspicion evident in more than one face.

"The man hasn't been here a full day yet," Amy went on, lowing her voice but still waiting until they were safely out of earshot to go on, "But, people already know and word is getting around quick. If it gets ugly it will get ugly fast and I don't want my people to be targets of opportunity. Elite or not, this team is _my_ responsibility. I've agreed to meet with Gator and some of the other civilians in the church at sundown. In the mean time, again, hopefully, the Freedom Guard Riders can get the folks around here to keep their heads cool and let me try to bring some reason to this insanity before this place starts to implode."

N'Rule nodded some more, pausing as they drew up at the infirmary steps.

"Vae and Lesheer will be pulling stealth guard at the forge tonight, but I still want the weapons parted and locked up. Doors chained. I don't like it, it doesn't garner trust, but feelings are high and I know the rebels. They are sneaky and the last thing we need is someone getting it in their head to snatch some fancy new weapons to start a firefight inside the complex before I can get things sorted out."

"Agreed."

Starr drew a breath and let it out to steady herself, wishing everything she had just said hadn't sounded like excuses. This was not time to be dividing lots: human and Elite, patriot and rebel; but that was what was happening, and quickly. Amy knew all about the house divided and she couldn't just watch this fall apart from the sidelines. She had to do something. So here she was, with her boots shined and her clothes pressed, her hair in a tight, smart bun, looking as military and squared away and ready as she could, about to stroll casually into the hornets' nest and try to get a handle on what was going on. To be a voice of reason. To play mediary.

Amy took a long look at the infirmary doors.

"No potato guns," she added, trying to break the feeling of dread.

N'Rule chuckled, "Yes, Madam Sergeant, you have my word."

Amy cut him a glance, shaking her head at the honorifics and forcing a tiny smile before drifting up the stairs and through the doors, Naaco at her heels.

The lights were up inside and Amy was immediately greeted by the sight of Torsch 'Korid, his bulk blocking out the center of the inner window as he stood looking in. Starr felt her heart thump an extra beat but forced herself to cross the atrium, motioning for Naaco to go on inside the ward.

The spacious main hospital room had been slightly rearranged to accommodate extra chairs and a small table. Naaco seated himself there, producing a leather-bound tablet of paper and various pens from a tan satchel.

While Donnovan Jones continued to sleep off his tranquilizer, Charlie Deléon and Lace Mariotti sat atop their beds, looking as well and rested as their current circumstances allowed. The head of Hagart's bed had been raised, putting the man in a semi-seated position. His foot was still propped up and swaddled in gel packs, his toes a gruesome purple. Amy wasn't sure if the color change marked an improvement from the night before. She hoped it did. Though that would be the least of his concerns, all things considered.

Lucinda sat on one side of her father's bed in a chair and Daniel stood on the other, a faint smile hinting at the corners of his mandibles. Lucinda was beaming and her uncles, and even the nuns, were attentive as Hagart regaled them all with some story. Amy stepped to Torsch's side and watched. It was like viewing a holovid on mute. Everyone looked deceptively happy and contented.

"What's the plan, 'Korid?" Amy finaly asked, her voice whisper thin.

The stout Elite didn't respond.

"Are you really going to let the nuns patch them up just so Dak can cut them into little pieces?"

Her snark sounded hollow and the sass fell flat. Several moments ticked by in silence.

"That is not an accurate summation of what General 'Varlemai..."

"He's her _father,"_ Amy interrupted, closing her eyes tight against a well of emotion.

"I am aware of their relation."

"And, that doesn't matter to you?" She spat. After a few seconds of silence she looked at him in disbelieving exasperation, silently pleading with the side of his face.

"Quite the contrary," 'Korid muttered darkly, "Experience has taught us that it is those who have something for which to live who are the most..._ forthcoming,_ when plied with appropriate measures of persuasion."

At this point, Amy was running on little more than caffeine and stubbornness, but they both failed her at hearing him talking like this. How much of it was a mix of empathy for Lucinda, fear for those men in there, and concern over what this could do to what little this place had left and how much of it was not wanting to face that she loved someone who was turning out to be capable of being this monstrous she wasn't certain.

Without so much as glancing her way, Torch turned and started for the door into the ward.

"What if it was Coh?" Amy heard herself blurt out desperately.

He froze mid-step, hands clenching into fists, thick muscles coiling beneath pristinely polished armor.

"What if it was her?" Starr went on, emboldened, taking a step to follow him but stopping well out of striking distance, "Could you still do this if it was _her_ they..."

_"Enough,"_ he interrupted with a hiss, not bothering to look at her, "This is not the time for sentimentality," he growled, "Lest you forget, while you have been playing armorer with members of _my_ team which you covertly _appropriated..."_

"Is that what this is really about, N'Rule and Eeth?"

"..the rest of us have been trying to insure the protection of the compound," he went on as if she hadn't spoken, "And plan a war. Everyone wants answers, and I intend to have them..."

"But, at what cost?"

"At _any_ cost."

"'Korid, you can't do this. You can't sacrafice people like this."

"I have before and I _will _again if I must, make no mistake about that. Victory belongs to the ruthless, Sergeant Starr." He stepped to the door, laying his hand on the handle which would allow him admittance. He looked at her then, his lovely green and lavender eyes hard as stone even as they drifted up and down her body, "Do not _ever_ speak Coh's name again."

With that he jerked open the door and made his way into the ward leaving her standing there fighting the urge to vomit.

* * *

**Caddo County/Highway 113**

A green and white reflective road plaque designated it officially as the Julius Deveroux Memorial Highway. Though, no one called it that. It was the South Swamp Bridge to the locals, as opposed to the North Swamp Bridge on the other side of the Old Trammel Bridge north of the river. A giant, stinking, sweltering, mosquito infested swamp traversed by twenty-three miles of suspended highway.

_Ah, low country._

According to the sign, this stretch of highway was completed July 7, 2407 and named in memory of Julius Delmar Deveroux III, a fifth generation hellcatter who was the first civilian contractor to die on Ambrosia II when he fell twenty-three hundred feet to his death at this location while assisting in the building of Atmospheric Station # 3 on October 19, 2107.

None of this was of any interest at all to Captain Marcus Gillery. The sign was just something to read while he played with the optic of his rifle and waited for the boys to rig a crossing over a gimungus hole in the bridge. He had been looking around, zooming in on this or that for what felt like hours now. Baking in the mid-day heat as he lay prone across the apex of the Wraith's main gun cowl.

It provide the best view and the vehicle had a heat shield which made its surface temperature bearable.

With a sigh, Gillery zoomed out and panned around, following a filmy patch of bubbles as they oozed down the pea-soupy lowland river muck. With the loss of the Alcase Dam miles upstream, even after all the rain the region had gotten, the river was still low. Testament to this, the receding waters had left a thin, powdery film of general grossness on everything where the water table had dropped. Seven feet or more of dried swamp muck climbed the base of cypress trees and merged into the banks of slushy mud punctuated by knobby cypress knees. Gillery blew raspberries of boredom in to the air, thinking of how much of a mess downtown New Saint Etienne had to be right now what with all of the water draining into it. North Entinne was sure a shit hole.

_Problems for someone else,_ he reminded himself.

"Captain," came an impossibly deep voice as Field Master 'Caaln's head and shoulders emerged from the Wraith's uppermost hatch.

Gillery didn't look up from his scope, instead he followed the rustling of low hanging branches as the movement continued several hundred feet down the boggy river.

"I told you, Field Marshal," _a_ _thousand and ten times,_ Gillery thought, "call me Gill."

'Caaln sighed wearily, "And I have explained to you, Captain, my proper title is Field _Master._ Field Marshal is a naval rank."

Field Master Nostalsuis 'Caaln was a giant pain in the ass. That should have been his proper title: Pain in the Ass First Class 'Caaln.

He was big, and dark, and had a voice that, as a man, made Gill a bit jealous. It was the kind of voice that probably made women's ovaries quiver. His creepy reptile eyes were an unnatural shade of blue...well, one eye was an unnatural shade of blue. The other eye was hidden behind what looked like a half-cancerous, milky colored, cataract-tumor-ish thing. The eyelid was missing and a scar ran 'Caaln's face at an angle. His eye had apparently been a casualty of some battle of yore.

Gill found himself wondering if Elites even got cancer, or cataracts, or tumors...

A bird emerged from the swaying brush, dropping like lead from the drooping branch of a swamp willow and fanning its rust colored wigs to glide down and perch on a cypress knee. Maybe five feet from beak to tail, easily seventy-five pounds if it had air sacks and bone hollows like normal birds. But, this was not a normal bird. It had short legs which ended in five-toed feet, each with three forward and two rear facing talons. The creature hopped from cypress knee to cypress knee, approaching a bloated mass covered in algae and swimming with maggots.

_Yummy,_ Gill thought.

The alien bird reached to pull its meal closer to its perch, not with its feet or beak, but with two hooked claws which protruded from the forward bend of a wing like creepy little hands. The bird paused, beady eyes shifting as it angled its head and listened for danger. Its long leathery beak was rimmed with teeth. It reminded Gill of a Jackal.

"You know anything about birds, 'Caaln?" Gill asked.

There was silence, then the Field Master rumbled, "It is a Sanghelios river hawk. A scavenger. Despite the name it subsists by consuming carrion and is..."

"I know what _scavenger_ means," Gill interrupted, "What's it doing here?"

As he watched, the bird tugged at its meal, rolling the rotten mass to reveal strings of pale flesh and an empty ribcage. A partially skinned human skull bobbed up like a cork.

"Aw, Jeeze," Gill muttered.

"No doubt it is a survivor of _Eternal Reaping,_ the legion's agricultural ship," 'Caaln answered, "We passed near the wreckage of the vessel days ago. That is unlikely to be the only specimen which survived because..."

"Oh, goodie," Gill droned.

"...it is being hunted," 'Caaln finished.

"Wonderful news. Are there any of those critters of yours we should be worried abou..._SHIT_!"

Gill shrieked and nearly tossed his rifle as the swamp parted at the river hawk's feet and another alien beast emerged, all teeth and multiple snapping jaws. The corpse disappeared into the larger animal's gaping maw and the beast snatched the hawk as the bird tried to take flight. Lunging, grabbing with its mouth, this alligator on steroids clawed the air with fat and webbed feet-fins. A thousand pounds of hungry alien hate if it was an ounce. Gill peeped through the rifle optic and watched as the creature tossed its head, slinging water and rust colored feathers in its wake as it sank heavily and disappeared beneath the murky remains of the river.

"Yes, there is," the Elite responded.

Gill frowned, slowly lifting his head and turning to the Field Master, "Just fabulous."

"It is worth mentioning that few of the agricultural species which accompany warships are not themselves carnivorous. The leisure hunting of herbivores is not considered sporting."

"Of course not, because it can't be nearly as fun if dinner isn't trying to eat you, huh, Field Marshal?"

'Caaln leered, "Precisely, Captain."

* * *

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage **

The door eased closed behind him and the antiseptic smell of the ward closed in like a noxious cloud. Torsch stood for a moment grinding his mandibles slowly and trying to quell the discontent churning in his stomach. Once his nerves were sufficiently collected and his temper dampened back down, he looked up to see all eyes watching him. The human captives sat with a look of contained fear; Sister Rachel Marie glared from behind the nurses station; Sister Penelope stood looking at him as if frozen in place holding a chart to her chest like a small, ineffective shield. Naaco seemed to cower, averting his gaze and continuing to make notations to the head of his ledger. Lucinda had an expression of terror, reaching to take her father's hand. Even Daniel's expression spoke the hint of treperation. Only Hagart looked back without emotion, patting the top of Lucinda's hand reassuringly.

"Stealth Major," the elder Deléon rasped.

Torsch gave a single nod, recovering himself to cross the room.

"If I may be so bold," Hagart said, clearing his throat and shifting heavily in his bed, "I have a favor to ask of you."

'Korid paused for a moment and just stared at the man, then he carefully drew a chair to the foot of the bed and sat down, "Proceed," he rumbled.

"I don't believe, I gather, it would be overly presumptuous of me to assume that my men and I are unlikely to survive whatever it is you have planned for us," he paused, as if the implications of his own words had just struck him.

_"Papa,"_ Lucinda admonished hoarsly.

Hagart turned to her and smiled a forced, tight smile, the smile of a man already resolved to certain death, tears welling up in his eyes.

'Korid sat ramrod straight, steeling himself against what was coming, fighting a sense of disgust as he waited, watching the man sort out his words.

After a few moments Hagart continued, "The sisters have informed me that there is a priest who lives here. My brother-in-law," he motioned to Lance Mariotti who seemed to shrink under 'Korid's fleeting glance, "I only ask that you allow him to make a final confession...before you kill him. If that is indeed your plan."

Absent his control, a brow ridge climbed 'Korid's forehead. He had misjudged this man. What had sounded dangerously close to the beginning of a plea for leniency had turned out to be something else entirely. Torsch could not help but feel a twinge of respect for...

"Oh, Papa," Lucinda squeaked, tears spilling down her face as she looked from her father to Daniel to Torsch then all around the room as if searching for someone who would tell him he was wrong.

It was Hagart who gently shushed her, "Lucinda, stop," he said softly, reaching to tuck a curl behind the kerchief over her missing eye. "There is not a thing I will reap at their hands which is more than I deserve."

Lucinda drew a shakey breath, "Daniel?" She squeaked, "Major 'Korid? Sister Rachel?" she said around her tears, her gaze traveling to each of them and around the room to land on Amy as the Sergeant First Class slipped into the room followed by General 'Varmelai, "Amy? Dak?"

Amy held up a hand calmingly, sending Torsch an icy look, "That's getting a bit ahead of ourselves, Mr. Deléon ."

"Hagart," he corrected, a wan and weary smile creasing his face, "Please, all of you just call me Hagart."

"You have my word, Hagart," Torsch said, returning Amy's calm and cool look as he reasserted his control of the situation, "I will see to it that Mariotti sees the priest."

Hagart nodded, pursing his lips, "Thank you," he said hoarsly. Then, huffing a mirthless laugh he said, "I don't suppose it would matter to you if I give _my_ word that we will tell you everything." He frowned and shook his head, muttering to himself, "No. It wouldn't if I were in your shoes."

Seconds slipped by into minutes and no one spoke. Everyone, save Naaco who kept his head down and his snout in his ledger, and Dak who had propped a shoulder against a wall and was picking idly at his claws, stared in the silence at Torsch. He could feel their expectant eyes on him.

It was Hagart who broke the spell, "Sister Rachel Marie," he said, "If it is not an imposition, might I ask that someone escort my daughter..."

"No, Papa, I want to stay," Lucinda interrupted, clasping his arm.

"And I wish very much I could allow it. But, that would require that I had been a better man. Lucinda, I need to tell these peoole some things, a lot of things, and there are things a child should never know about her parents."

Lucinda's lip quivered and she wiped at her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Hagart said, reaching to brush her cheek, "For everything, Lucinda. I messed this up badly, but I tried...just know that I _tried_ to make it right in the end."

"Papa..."

"Here, before you go, I want you to have this," he said firmly, shifting to dig a hand in a hip pocket. He retrieved a worn and weathered pocket watch. "Do you remember this?"

She nodded, reaching to take it from his hand.

"Grandpa Mariotti g-gave it to you. When y-you married mama."

Hagart nodded.

"He didn't like you," she went on, "b-because you were a Sp-Spaniard."

Hagart chuchled, his own eyes sparkling with tears, "He had more reasons than that to find fault with me. The fact that I was a Spaniard was least among them, though he would have preferred his daughter marry a good, Catholic Italian."

Lucinda turned the watch in her hand, nodding sullenly as she ran her thumb across the face.

Torsch could see that it was a worn object of mostly gold inlayed with details of platinum. Across the face chips of fire opal, ruby, onyx, and a myriad of other tiny, glinting stones were set to form the image of a wild, rearing cat. In a shade of red, this feline sparkled, with claws bared and a bifurcated tongue licking from a between open jaws. Lucinda turned the thing over in her palm and ran a thumb across the words delicately etched on the back.

It appeared to be Latin. Not a language Torsch could _read._

"I was _that Spaniard boy_ from the first moment he laid eyes on me," Hagart went on.

"You were ten," Lucinda whispered, still studying the watch.

"Yes. And I loved your mother even then. The day I turned eighteen I dropped out of high school to join the Marines because I wanted to prove myself, but it turned out I wasn't a patriot. I went AWOL, and joined the insurrection. When I came home your Grandpa Mariotti saw a jobless, homeless, dishonorable rabble rouser without an education or prospects. But, your mother still loved me."

"You came back for her." Lucinda sniffed and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, "You sent comms nearly every day and promised to marry her."

"Yes. And, when I asked her, with hardly a demcredit to my name, she said yes."

Tears finally broke free of Hagart's eyes to trickle down his face. He went on as if he didn't notice, "When your grandfather gave me this, I knew...I knew for all the grief he had given me, for as much as it pained him, a retired career Navy man, to see his only daughter marry into this life, he was finally trying...trying to look at me with different eyes, to see past what I was and what I wasn't and to what was in here," he tapped his chest with a fist, "What I was capable of being."

Lucinda nodded.

"I got a job, and worked hard. I finished school and graduated from college. I was still a rebel but I took good care of your mother and loved her even when the doctors told us she'd never have children."

"Then she had me."

"And, I swore to myself I would never put my future son-in-law through the hell your Grandpa gave me."

Lucinda smiled sadly at that, then Hagart whispered hoarlsy, "But, instead I did it to you."

Lucinda looked at him then, confusion twisting her face.

"I'm sorry," he said weakly, "For all of it. I'm so sorry. I just...I never really saw you. You were always so kind, so gentle and tender-hearted. I never stopped...I was blind. All I could see was what I thought was ...weakness, yet you're the one who has survived all of this."

"Papa..."

Hagart shook his head, looking at her and wrapping a hand over hers, closing her fingers around the watch, "The galaxy is a harsh and dark place. I only wanted you to be strong enough..." he puffed out a breath and lay back, "More than that, I was angry. At myself, for bringing a child into this mess. And, because seeing you I saw who your mother use to be and I knew the life I had chosen had changed her." He shook his head, "Your mother said you were her bud of hope in the dark for this world and I," he clenched his jaw and spoke through gritted teeth, "I kept trying to make you into something you weren't because I was convinced that a flower _does not_ bloom in darkness."

"Lollies do."

All eyes turned to Naaco who startled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat before he hunkered back over his notebook.

Torsch snorted and Daniel hummed thoughtfully.

Amy and Hagart exchanged looks.

"Pardon?" Hagart asked.

"Lollies," Dak 'Varlemai rumbled, looking up from picking at his claws, "Night blooming flower of Sanghelios."

"Ah," Hagart mused, turning to clasp both hands over Lucinda's, "of course they are," he whispered with a smile. "You survived, Lucinda, not because of anything I did. You were already what you needed to be, even if I couldn't see it until now."

Lucinda sniffed and looked down at her father's hands covering hers.

"Let me talk to these people now and you go and check on Penny. I will see you at supper."

Lucinda's gaze jerked to 'Korid, her eye pleading.

He gave her a single, slow nod, his guts twisting into knots.

With that, Sister Penelope helped Lucinda to her feet and the two shuffled from the room.

When they were gone Hagart sighed heavily and ran a hand through his thick stock of silver hair, turning to Torsch and asking, "Where would you have me begin, Stealth Major?"


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage **

_'Spare him.'_

Torsch 'Korid barely glanced at the words formed in a jagged Sangheili scrawl. Daniel wondered at first if his old friend would respond. Then, the Stealth Major sighed, clenching his mandibles and reaching to plot a smudge of yellow on the holo map.

"Why should I?" 'Korid growled, his face a hard, unreadable mask as he turned from the map to Daniel and folded his thick arms.

Daniel stood for a moment there a step back from the table, just close enough to have set the notepad within 'Korid's view, avoiding as he did his friend's eyes. Daniel finally motioned questioningly to a chair. Torsch grunted in wordless indication for him to sit.

As Daniel perched his behind in the seat, "Tell me, what would you have me do?" Torsch asked, his voice coarse as gravel as he steepled his fingers and tapped his fingertips lightly.

Daniel gritted his teeth, taking slow, deep breaths as he reached to slide the notepad back and fumbled with a small pen.

_'Let us reason together, brother.'_

Torsch scanned the words and Daniel knew the moment he had read the final one. Mentioning the brothhood of warriors was not to be taken lightly. And, it worked.

Torsch's eyes went slightly wide. Then, his face screwed up, mandibles going akimbo before he clamped them shut, sneering as he swiped the notepad angrily from the tabletop, sending the paper tablet ruffling to the floor. Daniel sat still as a stone at the outburst while Torsch rose, chair legs squealing against the floor as he snarled and muttered to himself, "You do not..." he began in a hoarse growl, index finger jabbing the air toward Daniel. "Do _not_ refer to me as your..."

His outstretched hand clinched into a fist and Torsch whirled away. Daniel watched his friend struggle. Torsch paced the length of the human table, feet thumping one way then the other, like a wild doamir finding himself in cage, knowing he could not escape but needing to move. 'Korid muttered angry curses in Sangheili, reaching to pull at a lower mandible and scratch at his head, claws grappling the back of his neck, hands balling, arms falling to his sides, then folding, unfolding, hands at his hips then worrying at his face some more as he crossed back and forth and again before the table.

_"Reason_ with you," he muttered in between sharply punctuated swearings, casting Daniel a disgruntled glare before dragging his chair back to the table and settling into it heavily, propping his elbows on the tabletop and resting his forehead in his upturned palms.

Daniel watched him cautiously for a few moments before reaching to retrieve the notepad and pen from the floor.

"There are times..." 'Korid said softly, pausing to draw a breath, head I his hands as he spoke toward the table.

Daniel felt a chill tingle down his spine.

"...when a man must do things, even when he has no wish to do them..."

Daniel began to scribble hastily, recognizing his own words coming from his friend's mouth.

"...because they are for the betterment of others, put before one's own desires..." Torsch's words trailed off into a mumbled slur of anguish. He looked down at the words Daniel offered.

_'You would punish him for my sins?'_

'Korid sat bolt upright and slammed a fist against the table, "Have you any idea what she _did_ to me?" He hissed, "What she _made_ me do?"

Daniel averted his eyes. He knew full well who _she_ was, and, yes, he knew what she had done. But, the Mistress J'zeri 'Berov had only been doing her _duty..._

"I did not want any of it, but you..._ you_ would have your hero for the edification of _your_ bloodline, so here I am." Torsch spread his arms wide. It was painful for Daniel to meet his friend's eyes, "And there you sit," Torsch spat, "hiding behind your _exile_ now just as you hid behind your kaidonship _then._"

Daniel shook his head, trying to deny it...

"Do not _lie_ to me, _Sicera,"_ Torsch sneered.

Daniel tensed at the use of his former name.

"We have known each other far too long to begin that. I was prepared to die there on the battlefield," 'Korid said tightly, "Because your life was of more value than mine and instead of acting as a friend, as a _brother,_ and running a blade through my chest you looked at me and saw an _opportunity."_

Daniel felt sick.

"And you... _you_ knew," he whispered hoarsly, "You _knew_ I would never accept the title...because I would not be permitted to...so I played right into your hands and hers..." his words choked up and he gulped ragged breaths. It was several moments before he was able to speak again. He rumbled softly, "There are times I can feel it still. The days I can not remember haunt me like ghosts and I can feel it running in my veins even after all these years."

Daniel wrote in his sloppy scribble, _'Then take your recompense from my flesh.'_

'Korid looked at the note as it was slid into his view. He snorted a sad laugh, "I have no use of your flesh."

Then, he dropped his face back into his hands, speaking through his palms, "I..." he paused, huffing a painful breath, "No, I do not require flesh of you, Daniel. What was done is over." He shook his head whispering, "It will not leave me but it is over." He was silent for a few moments after that, "It is today and here which matters. I care only that these people remain safe. That the children here... What am I to do? Do I trust their words without the benefit of testing them? Is it truly that easy?"

Daniel scratched pen against paper.

_"Were it so."_

Torsch peered at the paper through his fingers and snorted a sardonic laugh.

The two of them sat in silence for the remainder, Torsch cradling his face and Daniel watching, knowing his friend was hurting from the past to the present.

They were men cut from different cloth. All Daniel had wanted was respect and honor, title and wealth, in military and civilian life. To be feared. To be great. He had only wanted _everything,_ and had killed his predecessors to have it. 'Korid had simply wanted...to go home, as little honor as there was in that. Torsch had wanted to be a mentor to his sisters' children and grow old in the bousom of his family. It was cruel and unfair that a man born to be a farm servant would make such an able and ruthless warrior.

Yet, there Torsch 'Korid sat, across the table from Daniel, with the burden of leadership on his shoulders...struggling not to be crushed beneath it's weight. In so doing, Torsch was being exactly what Daniel had forced him to be and following the example Daniel had provided to him.

Daniel's hearts sank at the realization.

Torsch had wanted...but Daniel had refused and once J'zeri had gotten her claws into him... Torsch had never been the same after. He had been bitter. Angry. Brutal. Then when little Coh had been killed what was once the fruit of calculation had been a bointy reaped with interest in the wrath of grief. The glorious, unforgiving, bloodlust of a warrior's mourning. And now...

Daniel looked down into his lap, squeezing his eyes shut against the memory of Lucinda's voice crying out to her God in that dark place...pleading in her own suffering for mercy on _him..._ after all he had done and allowed.

Looking up Daniel saw Torsch had not moved, he was still sitting holding his down turned face.

From the door Kote cleared his throat and Daniel turned to see the junior Stealth Major standing there with Yipip. Silently, Daniel retrieved his notepad from the table top and rose, slipping the notebook into a shirt pocket.

It was almost time for the evening communique and he had said his peace for the evening.

Giving his friend one last look Daniel hung his head and slinked away.

* * *

"We know it was Azrael Ashumnd who ordered the attack on Fort Champlain."

There were a low rumble from the people gathered before her, but Amy spoke up and managed to maintain control of the floor, "He was at one time allied with the Brute remnant, at least loosely, and used this as an avenue to gather supplies and armament and as a means of control. To that end, he ordered the execution of dissenters of his regime aspirations and those who disagree with his methods. This includes anyone caught aiding other surviving groups; all law enforcement," she nodded toward Peter Andrews for effect as the young State Trooper stood against the wall nearby, "UNSC affiliates, Elites, and basically anyone who might get in the way of his dream of total, planet-wide domination."

She paused and looked out across the group gathered in the chapel. Dusty men and women looked back. Roughly thirty civilians and several Freedom Guard Riders were seated in the front pews. "Piggie-backing off of the existing plan, several of Ashmund's primarty enforcers were hatched from Duboise Super Max subsequent the Covenant attack and total grid failure. I don't have to go into detail about what kind of people we're talking about here...what they did in order to get put into a post-transit maximum security prison. But, they did and he found them and they have been wrecking havoc inside the city on his word. We have confirmation that what the Elites have come to call the Shaking Sickness was a deliberately encouraged illness. It is highly contagious, a byproduct of conditions following the collapse of sanitation. It was a convenient means of biological attack. Ashmund didn't create it but he used it and has been keeping his own prisoners to foster the illness, deliberately feeding contaminated... _food..._ to captives in order to infect those who escaped the city."

Amy took a deep breath and steeled herself against her next words, "The choice victims of this has been children and adolescents."

There were gasps from the crowd, "I'm sorry to have to say this, but we know that these children have been turned loose with the accurate assumption they would seek out their parents or other adults who would unknowingly take them in thus spreading the contagion."

Amy heard a woman sob.

"Little consolation as it is in the face of that, I can assure you measures have already been taken insure this compound and the surrounding area is protected. A strategy for neutralizing those in our immediate region has already been put into place," she held up her hand as if to ward off questions building in a low, angry thrum, "It means exactly what it sounds like it means. At this time there is no way to fight this. Long term quarantine in hopes of a cure is a death sentence. Once symptoms present, a person has less than a week before the Shaking Sickness kills them. I'm sorry, but like it or not we don't live in the twenty-sixth century anymore. This is the dark ages and we're up against the plague."

She let that sink in, the group rumbling themselves down as the truth of the matter worked its way into shocked acceptance.

Amy went on, "We are in daily contact with Ceane and North Entinne, and through them have received updates on several major population centers. We are working to update and communicate survivor rosters and get that information to you as soon as we can. I know many have loved ones out there. That being said, most locations report that it is much the same there as here. That is why, once our immediate safety from disease has been secured within a reasonable margin of certainty, we're going to use the information provided to formulate a viable plan of attack on Ashmund's location and..."

"Information provided by Hagart Deléon," a gruff voice interrupted from the midst. There were hushed murmurs from the crowd.

Amy pursed her lips, "Yes, information provided by Hagart Deléon," she confirmed.

More murmurs erupted unbridled and unchecked and the noise rose to a chaotic roar. Gator stood from the front pew and turned and held his arms up wide for calm. When silence resumed the burly, bearded man gave Amy a nod and took his seat.

Starr had hoped to avoid the topic of Hagart Deléon for a few minutes more. It was volatile and she wanted to have a chance to garner a better sense of cohesion and shared purpose between the people and the Elites and soldiers before the dividing subject reared its inevitable head. If possible, for the sake of peace, she wanted to keep the ugly run-down far away from Hagart. Ashmund was already removed from many of them. He was the leader of another faction. They could easily blame him and rightly so. Amy needed them to hate Azrael Ashmund but more than that she needed to not seem like she was implicating Deléon in everything. He had implicated himself, but that wasn't the point. These people could lose their children and loved ones to Azrael Ashmund but they would burn her at the steak if she hinted that Hagart Deléon was guilty of facilitating those atrocities...and more.

He had been desperate to find his daughter in a world suddenly under Ashmund's control. The picture Hagart had painted was horrendous, the things he had done unimaginable, yet Amy had found herself feeling genuinely sorry for the man. He had done what he felt he had to until he realized how far he had gone. That didn't excuse anything and to his credit he never once asked for forgiveness. Amy respected that he wouldn't plead for understanding...or mercy. He knew what he had done and living with that was more punishment than dismemberment and death could ever be.

"I'm not going to stand up here and lie to you," Amy said, folding her hands into the small of her back and dropping her head thoughtfully as she walked the length of the platform at the front of the church, picking her words carefully, "An Elite Special Operations team captured Mr. Deléon, two of his associates, and an additional subject outside of New Sainte Etienne..."

"What are they gonna' _do_ to him?" a woman shouted out. A chorus of voices grumbled in agreement.

Gator stood again, giving the assemblage the stink-eye as he met Amy as she walked back across the front of the room to stand in front of the wooden pulpit.

"Right now all we're doing is talking..."

"Right _now?"_ A man scoffed loudly.

Gator scowled.

"Yes, right now," Amy repeated, "Mr. Deléon is being cooperative. He has voluntarily provided information critical to..."

"Are you gonna' let them _kill_ him?" A man said as he stood from three rows back.

"Tom," Gator said in a warning tone.

"Aw, come on, Gate. She ain't got _no_ right, ain't none of 'em do..."

"Tom," Amy said calmly. The man looked at her, eyes drifting up and down her suspiciously, "I know how important this man is to a lot of you and I promise..."

"You don't know nothin'," Tom snarled, "'And you can't promise _shit."_

There were a few gasps. An older man seated near the front crossed himself. A few others shook their heads. More nodded and voiced their agreement. The woman at Tom's side reached for his arm and pleaded with him to sit back down.

"Tom, we're in a _church,"_ she cried.

He shook off her hand, jabbing a finger toward Amy, "We all know who you are. You think we're stupid, like this is one of your press conferences? You think the Covenant attack means we all forgot how you use to be on the news feed all the damn time talking UEG this and peaceful resolution that. And look where that got us..."

"Tom," Gator snapped, _"Sit. Down."_

"You're not in charge here," the man looked around the group, "Are you all really gonna' sit here and listen to this?"

"Just what do you want to do?" Gator countered, slowly making his way to the other man's pew row. All eyes were fixed on the biker, "You want us to lets all take out our guns and have an old fashioned shootout? We got the firepower and we're all armed. Ain't enough people died yet? You'd rather have more blood than to listen? Cause that's all I hear. She didn't make this stuff happen. None of this is her fault but at least she's good enough to not pretty it up for us like we don't deserve to know what all's really going on out there. You wanted the ugly truth and she's giving it to you. Miss Starr is doing the best she can here, Tom, least you can do is listen to what she has to tell us. She ain't got to be here."

Amy felt a flood of relief at being so throughly validated.

Relief that was short lived.

Tom scoffed, "The best she can," he mocked, looking at Amy the way a person looks at dog crap on their shoe, "What's she gonna' do, Gate? _Screw_ all of them? 'Cause that's all I know she's done. You got that kinda' skill in the sack, _Miz Starr?"_

Amy felt her face turn bright red.

_"Hey,"_ Gator snapped, "Knock it off."

"Is that it?" Tom went on, "We seen you with that Major, all smilin' like the cat that got the canary. Only, we _know_ what you got. What'sit? You find one of those things to lay some big ol' alien pipe and you forget what side you're on?"

"Dag blast it, Tom Beauchaine," Gator growled, "Shut your filthy mouth."

"I ain't gotta' listen to this," Tom shouted, "Come on, Susan."

With that Beauchaine took his wife by the arm and pulled her to her feet. The two made their way out, Susan looking embarrassed and apologetic all the way to the door.

Silent moments ticked by. Amy could hear her heart beating in her ears as she stared at the short carpet fibers on the floor at her feet and took careful breaths, in through her nose and out through her mouth. She didn't know Gator had walked to her until the man gently touched her elbow. "Amy?" he whispered softly, saying in a grandfatherly tone, "He didn't have call to talk to you like that. You alright?"

Amy nodded, gathering the resolve.

"No one is going to hurt him," she finally said to the floor, hot emotion driving her words, "If I have to sit in that room and guard him myself, I swear on my life I will _not _let that happen."

She looked up and few eyes met her own. Most people carefully avoided her gaze.

"Is there anything else anyone wants to know?" Amy asked, gritting her teeth and biting back her humiliation.

No one said a word.

* * *

A clutch of evening hens waddle-walked in a row, their line accordioning as the fat and flightless dove-like birds sped up and slowed down, sped up and slowed down as they made a collective and semi-orderly dash along the base of a wall and for the low porch of an eastern dormitory. The hens chortled an excited melody when they had disappeared under the porch to the safety of their roost. Daniel scuffed a foot in the dirt and sighed. He sat on the small back stoop of the main house in the late evening dark, watching the greenish disk of a full moon peek above the horizon.

Down the complex Lucinda emerged from the infirmary and Daniel watched her make her way up the central courtyard. He would have walked to join her but he found he could not move. It felt as if his hearts were in his throat choking him.

Lucinda, unaware she was being watched, paused in the moonlight as a chubby cat dashed from the dark shadow of the forge and streaked toward her. A girlish giggle floated up to his ears as Lucinda braced against her cane and twirled her hips, sending her long skirt dancing around her ankles and the cat into an enthusiastic fit of pouncing and wallowing.

Her father had said she would be sixteen in a few months.

_Sixteen._

Daniel scowled at himself. Where she was not quite an adult, at her age he had been a Swordsman's apprentice and by sixteen full years was a junior sub-officer in the Covenant Army. Hagart had said Lucinda was young for her age, always had been. Where other girls had been trying their hands at looking pretty for boys Lucinda had still been playing with dolls.

"She never belonged in this life. Never belonged as a part of this world. She was born in the wrong century, on the wrong planet...to the wrong parents," Hagart had said.

Lucinda continued on her way, cat trailing behind swatting at her skirt, and stopped at the foot of the steps. The cat sashayed up to Daniel and wound its way between his legs, up into his lap and bunted its head against his hand.

"I don't think Papa slept much last night with me there," Lucinda said as if in explanation. Then, "Simmons likes you."

The cat meowled up at Daniel as if in agreement, reaching to pat a paw against a lower mandible. The scarred Elite forced a sad smile and dutifully stroked the creature's orange tabby fur.

"Something's wrong," Lucinda said softly.

Daniel gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Lucinda took his hand, pulling him up. He followed obediently, feeling useless and impotent and hollow. She towed him along, making her way up the steps. When she opened the door the cat proceeded them into the house as if he owned the place, tail twitching as he prowled briefly around the kitchen. Through the house they went, passing the dining room where Majors 'Korid and 'Hakkamr sat at the table. They were busy plotting and planning, poring over Naaco's notes taken from the interview of Hagart and going over the evening's comms communique. Neither of them seemed to notice Daniel and Lucinda plus cat as the trio made their way down the hall.

Simmons made himself at home, jubilantly hopping on Lucinda's bed to flop down and begin bathing himself.

Daniel crossed the room and sat down sulkily on his pallet of blankets, looking at himself in the nearby mirror out of the corner of his eye. Lucinda pulled the chain on the glass lamp at her bedside bathing the room in darkness before she joined him. Even when she sat directly before him he couldn't bring himself to look at her. In the dark she reached across and let her fingers touch his arm, _'What is it?'_ she signed, invoking all the memories of their nights together in a dilapidated old house on a mountain...when nothing existed but the two of them.

In spite of his misery Daniel felt himself smile reflexively, preferring the memories of that time in his life to the hell he knew put him here. _His_ hell. The hell he had created and once ruled over.

He took her hand, '_I __am sorry,'_ he doodled against her palm, '_I tried but I am not certain__ I can...save him.'_

The weight of it broke him and Daniel felt tears slide down his face, '_And y__ou will not love me if..._'

She was in his arms in an instant, shushing him, wiping his face with her hands, "Don't," she whispered, "Of course I will." Her voice cracked.

He huged her close, _'It is my fault...'_

"No..."

She held him like that for what felt forever, letting her unusual strength seep into his soul even as she cried with him.

"Here," she sniffed softly, once their tears were exhausted. "You need this, more than I do." She sat up in his lap and pilfered in a pocket before feeling in the dark for his hand. She pressed her lips against his snout and her father's watch into his palm, "I love you...and I see you, even if you can't."

* * *

Eos was full and shining her silvery green light through the open window. By the moon's location in the sky it was the middle of the night. Penny could see the smallest of Ambrosia II's natural satellites from her bed as the orb traversed from northwest to southeast on the celestial body's late summer orbit: not that Ambrosia II was susceptible to true seasonal changes. With two largely equatorial landmasses and a scattering of unsettled, agriculturally inhospitable islands, those who made the terraformed planet their home experience a seventeen degree temperature change from high to low across the whole year.

With late summer temperatures in the low ninetys, grape and muscadine were blooming prolifically and their sweet scents washed in the room on a breeze. Voices trickled down the hall and into her room...along with the scent of scalding coffee.

Penny missed drinking coffee. She also missed seeing her feet and getting a full night's sleep; and stable, or at least somewhat predictable hormones.

But, right then she wanted to break down and cry. Not because she was awake, again, and had to pee, _again,_ or because she felt like it was a hundred and ten degrees in the house, or because she ached everywhere, or because she couldn't have coffee; but because the moon was visible through the window which meant Kote should have been there on his couch next to her.

The moon was there but Kote wasn't, which meant on this, the umpteenth trip across the hall to the bathroom, 'Hakkamr was not there to help her get out of bed. In and of itself that was no major event, Penny had long ago worked out a system of getting up unassisted. She had always had an independent streak and being pregnant and needing or wanting help to do normal things, like stand up, was enough to get her upset. She was so big she couldn't even put underwear on by herself.

Penny's little body was not cut out for this: not the swollen feet or the thousand extra pounds she felt like she was carrying around. She wasn't ungrateful and didn't regret her babies. After thinking she would never have children of her own Penny loved every wondrous moment of being pregnant. It was just that the wondrous moments were few and far between these days.

Her back hurt and her hips hurt and her ankles hurt and she was going stir crazy being on bed-rest. Kote made a point to come and see her throughout the day when he could, she had seen him twice that very afternoon…it was just that…she had gotten use to him being there to help her at this hour. It made the trip to the bathroom easier, but more importantly than that, she got to be close to him and touch him and have him all to herself for more than a few minutes without some Elite coming in with a major issue which needed resolving _right_ then.

In the night Penny felt miserable and alone and somehow..._ forgotten._

She flopped a pillow over her face and cried into it. She didn't want to be as big as a hippo; she didn't want to doubt Kote after so much unexpected wonderfulness; she didn't want to have to pee.

With a whimper, Penny used the pillow like a giant, fluffy tissue and wiped her tears. With resolve she wiggled and scooched to the edge of the bed, sniffing a few times up at the ceiling as she began the task of carefully getting out of bed.

She sat up and found herself shoving aside a sudden wave of nausia. The room did a wobbly round-about as vertigo grasped at her perception and Penny pressed a hand to her side as a heavy fullness caused her lowed abdomen to cramp. Cold sweat broke out across her forehead and a stab of pain made her breath catch. She took a few slow, deep breaths and pushed herself up, holding on to the side of the bed as the fiery feeling webbed across her insides. Penny glanced at the door into Grand-mama's room, but dismissed the moment of neediness. She could do this. Waddling from the bed to the door she carefully made her way to the bathroom just across the wide hall.

Her bladder did not cooperate and Penny sat for a few furtive moments pleading with her body, feeling the muscles in her lower back and abdomen slowly tense of their own volition, taking her breath away. She knew what was beginning to happen.

Penny emerged from the bathroom and stepped back into the hall. She braced herself against a wall with a hand and tried to stretch her back at an awkward angle, her hips sore and her lower abdomen on fire.

Kote's voice drifted down the hall from the front of the house, his words fuzzy and inarticulate.

A scared Penny followed the comforting sound, padding in her heavy waddle down the hall. She stopped and peered out into the open front room. The living space had been converted into a lobby and from the reflection of a large mirror hanging on the opposite wall Penny could see inside the dining room which had become a large meeting space, it's double doors propped open.

Kote was sitting at the head of a long oval table, his legs stretched out beneath and his narrow backside wedged into a cushy high-back office chair. Penny knew by the way he slouched in the seat he was exhausted and she felt a bit guilty for having allowed herself to get upset with him.

"The Governor's mansion is...here," Torsch touched a spot on the holographic map projection, "That is a great deal of ground to infiltrate on foot. Even concentrating our Stealth soldiers, it is inevitable that Ashmund will know we are coming."

Penny took a reflexive step back. Her heart was suddenly ponding in her chest and panic at the man's very _name_ crawled across her skin.

_No,_ she told herself, _He...he_ can't _be..._

The pregnant Larouche leaned against the wall, trying to convince herself...knowing she should have been prepared. Still, she suddenly found it harder to breathe and defensively clutched at her protruding belly as she inched back to peep at the mirrored reflection.

Kote laced his fingers together and tipped his face to the ceiling as he cradled the back of his head, "He knows we are here already..."

"He is _suspicious, _at the worst," 'Korid interrupted, "Hagart and his men did not give away our location, he assured me of this. It is why they were to be executed. Hagart did indicate that Ashmund was seeking someone in particular, though he was vague on the details of..." the rest of 'Korid's words became white noise.

Penny could feel herself shaking. She backed down the hall, making it only a step, clamping her hands over her mouth to keep from sobbing aloud as tears broke from her eyes. Her stomach lurched and her insides twisted into fire. Spots broke out behind her eyes and heat washed up her chest and slid around her neck like hot, choking hands. She couldn't breathe. Sounds seemed to fade to a distant place as a sharp ringing began in her ears. The world tilted out of control and Penny grabbed hold of the wall with sweat and tear-soaked hands to steady it.

Just then the kitchen door opened and Naaco stepped in from outside. He held in his hands a length of blonde oak and when his eyes turned to her Penny had never felt so trapped…so _caught._ Churning hot bile rose in her throat and she was too terrified to fight it.

The Sangheili slave paused for a split second before he crossed the hall opening and she saw his mouth parts moving but no sound registered.

_"Please,"_ she begged, shaking her head and clamping a hand over her wet mouth and slurring, "Please don't hurt me...my babies, please..."

She needed to run, she needed to get out of there, but her trembling legs could barely move.

In the mirror Penny saw Kote rise from his seat like a man possessed. He stalked from the meeting room taking long, determined strides toward the hall. When he rounded the corner Penny screamed.

She didn't realize she was backing away from him but he seemed to advance on her forever. She didn't hear herself sobbing apologies; she didn't see herself swinging wildly at him as she tried to get away; and she didn't feel the burn of fibers tearing loose in her abdomen or the heat of blood and fluids cascading down her legs.

She only knew no one would understand...

"Penny. _Stop. _You will harm yourself." Kote growled, grabbing her by her arms, taking no mind of the trail of vomit down her chin and stomach as her feet slipped in blood and he caught her.

"No! Don't!" She shreaked, trying to hold her belly.

Grand-mama emerged from her room spitting orders in French and 'Korid pushed past Naaco and burst out the kitchen door.

Amy came running down the stairs in time to hear Penny scream, _"Don't let him take my babies!"_ The pregnant woman then broke down into French babbling as she reached desperately from Kote's arms toward her grandmother. Grand-mama Laroche took her grandaughter's hands and helped Kote manhandle Penny as gently as possible back down the hall. Blood stained Penny's nightgown and tailed her struggling feet. Her wide, glassy eyes fell on Amy and she screamed, _"Amy help me!"_ Sobbing as she disappeared into her room, "I'm sorry, _I'm __sorry._ Kote, I'm sorry. Don't let Azrael take my babies. He'll kill them. He never wanted them... _PLEASE! I'm sorry!_"

"Oh..._ shit..."_ Amy said to the empty, blood smeared hall.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

The girls were named Abigail Shaere and Isabel Chaere. Four pounds three ounces and four pounds one ounce respectively, the infants were small, though not so for a twin birth. Each had ten perfect little fingers and ten perfect little toes, and heads full of dark curly hair.

Amy had been wrong those months ago. After labouring for sixteen hours, Penny did live to see and hold her babies.

Kote was by her side through it all. He broke down and told her how much he loved her. He promised to keep the girls safe, and though Sangheili naming custom dictated that children were to have their mother's family name, they were given his, like Penny had wanted.

She never knew her children had been born dead.

Placenta previa and interior abruption, the nurses had said. By the time anyone knew what was happening it was already too late. The fibrous mass which supplied the girls' nutrients and oxygen had obstructed their exit. Penny had likely been in labour for many hours, for as long as a day, until her membranes finally ruptured. Her discomfort and pain could easily have been mistaken as false labour in the absence of the tell-tale water breaking. When that happened it was because things inside were finally ripped through and torn, completely denying the babies oxygen and doing damage for which Penny's body could not compensate.

She had bled to death, smiling peacefully and holding her babies in her arms, with Kote and Grand-mama at her side.

The windows of the main house had again been painted black with ash and on the doors were hung wreaths of flowers. That night, there was a wake at the church and the next morning the children were buried with their mother.

Kote had born alone the simple box to the grave, with Eeth, N'Rule, Trosch, and Grand-mama flanking him. Father Bradshaw had read scripture at the graveside and when the retreating procession began back to the church with songs of joy and redemption, Kote had lingered behind, then walked alone out into the fields.

N'Rule had said that was the way some men preferred to grieve. Full of their faculties, alone and in private.

Amy sat on the front porch of the infirmary and watched as Kote emerged from the thicket of grape vines framing the western camp. He was not expected to engage in any duties for the customary Sangheili grieving period and had been gone for nearly those three days.

Unfortunately, with movement on the cannibal freaks imminent there was no time to pay proper homage to Penny and suspend all but critical duties across the camp. Amy had put N'Rule in charge of the bulk of weapons development and she had Corporal Winnefrid et al pulled from the duty rotation and tasked with attending comms meetings and directly assisting her in covering the infirmary round the clock. True to her word, Amy made sure someone was armed and parked in or at the infirmary to keep Hagart safe. Most of the time that someone was her, sawed off Reaper in hand. The others rotated relief periods and generally gravitated to the happenings in the forge.

Kote walked along the leaning picket fence which encircled the camp proper. His shoulders were slouched from the weight of his grief and he hung his head, dragging his feet like a condemned man. When he reached the cemetery plot he dropped to his knees in the dirt, kneeling at the foot of the freshly turned grave. For many moments he simply knelt there, unmoving except for the rise and fall of breathing. Then, he lay himself prostrate across the mound of dirt. And wailed. The sound of anguish that came out of him made Amy cringe. It echoed across the complex and drew more than one glance. Starr clamped her eyes shut and fought the well of nausea which seemed to seep up from her bones at the pain in that single bellow of mourning.

When she opened her eyes 'Hakkamr was collecting his feet. He stood looking down at the grave for a few more moments. Then, not bothering to dust the sand from his skin or his clothes, Kote turned, his eyes hooded and dark as he began taking heavy strides toward the infirmary.

As he approached, Amy felt her heart kick into high gear, her skin crawling at the hate in his eyes.

"Kote," she said evenly, hand gripping the stock of the modified shotgun at her side as she stood.

He didn't slow his stride or even look at her as he advanced on the steps.

_"Damnit,_ Kote," she said through gritted teeth, tears welling up in her eyes as she lifted the gun.

He paused, eyes lingering on the weapon before drifting up its shortened length to her hands, her arms, and finally to her face. There was emptiness in the eyes which met hers.

"I _will_ shoot you," Amy said around her own grief, a tear breaking free to slide down her face.

Behind her, the infirmary doors opened and Daniel stepped out onto the porch, followed by Lucinda who peered around his side. Across the courtyard N'Rule and Eeth peeped from the forge and various humans had stopped, some looked form windows while others emerged to watch with guarded stares all across the complex. 'Korid stepped out from the back of the main house and paused on the stoop looking down the length of the courtyard suspiciously.

Kote's eyes dropped again to the gun and he spoke softly, "I long to be where they are."

_"Kote...please..."_ Amy whispered, _Don't make me have to do this, _she silently begged.

His eyes flicked back to hers, indigence rising from their depths, "I wish very much for you to put an end to my suffering, Amy. And I doubt none that you would do it. However, though my soul is already dead I suspect my body yet has matters to attend. I swear on what remains of my life I will not harm him but I have come to believe they were sent to find _her;_ and for that I _**will**_ have an answer."

* * *

"I'll be back in a few hours, I need some air," Tom Beauchaine said, turning from the window and stuffing a pistol into his coat pocket.

"Tom..."

"Susan," he snapped, turning and pointing a finger in warning at his wife, "I don't need no lecture from you. It's bad enough that Sergeant Starr woman is sleezing around with those things and ain't got the guts to pull the trigger."

He pulled a dingy, camoflage ball cap over a balding head and huffed, "You seen what she let them do, draggin' Donny out the other day and lockin' him up out there, probably plottin' to do God knows what to him. He's nuttier than squirrel shit but he's like kin to me."

Susan sat on the bed in their small dorm room and worried with the shirt she had been folding. "I thought Donny..."

"Whut?" Tom said darkly.

"I mean..." she smiled weakly and laughed a nervous laugh, "You said he and..."

"You watch your mouth, and you never mind what I said. Don't matter now. Ain't you been payin' attention? You mean to tell me you ain't seen the way they got 'em collared like animals. S'not right. You think they're above doin' it to the lot of us we step outta' line? Then they go pullin' that funeral charade for that Penny girl. She got what she deserved, and I won't have my wife second guessin' me."

"But," Susan pleaded, "What are you going to do?"

"Don't know, yet. I need some air. You just keep your yap shut."

With that he stormed out.

* * *

"Yes," Hagart said solomly, "It was Penny who Ashmund was looking for."

He sat in his bed, looking out the window as the noontide suns baked the complex outside.

Charlie and Lance sat in folding chairs at his bedside looking across him at Amy, Kote, Daniel, and Torsch. The two had been placed on a sort of trustee status, as much as Elites allowed. Hagart's men cleaned up around the infirmary, fetching food and sweeping floors, washing linens and helping out.

Donnovan had been taken to the Spirit troop bay turned jail days before. He had woken from his tranquilizer in a tear and had had to be removed for his own safety and the sake of everyone else's ears and sanity. The man would not _shut up._ And, he absolutely would not cooperate. Though Amy had argued on his behalf and Dak had agreed to give the guy a fresh go, the minute the large Elite had produced a collar Donnovan had lost his mind.

Sill slightly bruised and raw Donnovan had fought restraintat. Dak had finally given up and carried him off, tucking the man under an arm like a squirming, bawling football.

In the end they had all been fitted round the neck with a thin band of Covenant alloy which blinked and winked.

"_Tr__acking devices, in case of ideas," _Dak had said, though it wouldn't be unreasonable to suspect they were armed with explosives. Also, in case anyone got any ideas.

"Once Azrael had control of Fort Champlain he nearly tore the city apart looking for her." Hagart went on, "He knew...he knew she couldn't have gotten far and he refused to believe her dead unless he saw the corpse himself. Those were his words. That was when I began to understand his motives..."

He shook his head, "It was as if...the very idea that she would escape his control was beyond his comprehension."

"We all saw it, not at first, mind you," Charles added, "Not for a long time. He had everyone fooled."

"My wife," the elder Deléon said, clearing his throat, "Lana felt guilty about what happened. Of course, she blamed herself, no matter how I tried to convince her. She thought that if only she had not allowed Penny to come with her that day, had not been so eager to introduce an outsider into the faction, had not sought validation from someone..." Hagart sighed wearily and ran a hand through his hair.

"I knew from Lucinda that Penny had left the school but I had no reason to think she was with child...or that Azrael had coerced her into ...being one of his..._ play things."_ He said the words painfully, "I don't say that to diminish her," he turned then and looked at Kote, "When Lana finally told me, when I learned the lengths that man had gone to to insure Penny's obedience and her silence... My God...he had had her grandfather _murdered_ as a warning. A ninety year old man, gunned down on his own front porch." Hagart shook his head bitterly, "Penny simply became caught in Azrael's web with no hope of escape. We were all afraid of what he might do. In awe of how he wielded power. It was simply the way things were. So, we just... Lana tried...God help her, she tried to set things right but it was too little far too late. She sold all of her jewelry to pay for two passes off-planet and when the grid went down she spirited Penny and Grand-mama from Ashmund's safe-house under false pretenses and tried to get them to the evac center. When the Covenant took down all power all she could do was send Penny and her grandmother out into a falling city with what weapons were stored in the trunk of our car. By the time Lana made it to the rally point the whole block had been decimated and our lives became a frantic search for our daughter. It consumed Lana and as the days stretched into weeks it drove her insane. She felt it was her punishment for what had happened to Penny. That was why I agreed to continue the search. I never believed Lucinda was alive, and I had to get away from what guilt and losing our only child had done to my wife. Even once Ashmund had all but given up on ever finding Penny, even knowing what kind of sickness he had unleashed into the world...that I had helped him to unleash...I had to go. I couldn't stay and watch my wife losing her mind."

The room rang with silence for a time after that.

When Kote finally managed to speak his voice was tight with rage, "You are saying...he _raped_ her?"

Hagart drew a deep breath as if thinking and looked toward the ceiling. "I have tried not to think about that," he said gravely, "I am unsure if it is kinder to believe he raped her, to hope that was her fate, or do I dare, after all I have done, sink to besmirch a woman of the cloth..."

"Penny was a _nun?"_ Amy blurted.

'Hakkamr's eyes went wide and the color drained from his face.

Hagart simply nodded.

"That was why we had to look here," Charlie said.

"Lana," Lance said tightly, "She told Azreal what she'd done, that she'd gotten Penny and Grand-mama out. I tried to stop her, but she told him so he would let us go out looking for them...so we could keep looking for Lucinda."

"I had passed the monastery every time I went into the city for nearly twenty-five years," Hagart said, "I knew, if Penny and her grandmother had found anyone from the church that's where they would have taken them...but when I saw this place," his voice wavered, "When I saw how guarded and protected it was...all I could think was that if they had made it here I couldn't do it. I couldn't condemn these people. We had already destroyed one nun's life. I couldn't risk any more. Charlie and Lance agreed with me, so, we went back and I lied. I told Ashmund that the monastery had been destroyed. That we had found nothing."

Charlie spoke then, "It was clear his hopes for finding Penny had been rekindled."

Lance began to sob as Hagart said, "He killed Lana...and for our failure we were to be fed to the Brutes."

* * *

Lucinda propped her cane against the wall and fingered the latch to the stall door. Inside, the big horse name Donut turned about to face her, hay dangling from his muzzle as he chewed. He nickered softly, ears pricked forward and big gentle eyes following her as she slipped in and closed the door behind her. Lucinda reached to pet his face and he sniffed expectantly at her hand, taking a tiny step forward to nuzzle at her hip pocket.

Lucinda smiled, "I see how it is," she chastised playfully, reaching in her pocket for a peppermint.

Donut lipped the treat from her palm when offered, licking at his lips and tossing his head in short jerky motions as he crunched happily. Lucinda turned and reached through the grated top half of the stall door and retrieved a brush from the hook on the wall outside.

This was where she came to be alone. Well, kind of alone.

As Lucinda began brushing the horse's speckled gray and red coat he nosed her pockets for more treats and lazily swished his tail. When no more peppermints were forthcoming, Donut turned slowly back to the hay bag hanging from a corner, one ear cocked back to the girl who hummed softly as she continued grooming him.

Lucinda didn't mind so much her papa not wanting to talk about some things with her around. It was more the worry that he would be gone when she came back that scared her. But, Major 'Hakkamr and Major 'Korid had promised, and they hadn't lied before. So, she had gone off to the stable, happy to find it empty of all but the horses.

Making her way around Donut, Lucinda paused to inspect a lock of mane which had come partly unbraided. After a short search she located the scrap of red ribbon which had come untied and retrieved it from the stall floor. Combing the wiry hair with her fingers, Lucinda returned the horse's mane to fully braided status, tying the lock off with the ribbon.

"There, now he's a pretty boy."

Donut nickered contentedly as if in appreciation of the praise.

Lucinda smiled and wrapped her arms around the big creature's thick neck, pressing her nose against his warm fur and breathing in the slightly musty, roasted chestnut smell of horse.

"Well, hello."

Donut raised his head and looked toward the sound of the voice and Lucinda peeped over his shoulders to see a bearded man standing outside the stall door. He wore a dusty, camoflage cap and his thin leather jacket was sweat stained with dark splotches at the armpits.

"Hello," Lucinda said cautiously, a creepy feeling tickling up her spine at the way the man looked at her. She found herself glad to have fifteen-hundred pounds of equine and a stall wall between the two of them.

Donut had stopped chewing and was looking at the newcomer, ears flicking from the man out in the center walk to Lucinda as she peered at the stranger.

_"Say,"_ the man drawled, pushing the bill of his cap up with a thumb, "You're Hagart's daughter, aren't ya'?"

"Lucinda," she said with a tiny, guarded, flicker of a smile.

"_Lucinda,"_ he mused, finding and lifting her cane from its resting spot just outside the door. "Yeah, _L__ucinda, _that's right." He began inspecting the cane as if it were a fine antique, turning it slowly in his hand, "You came in with that ugly Elite," he finally said.

Lucinda frowned.

"Well, they're _all_ ugly. What's your daddy think 'bout that, you hangin' 'round those squid heads. A pretty little girl like you windin' up here with that disgusting _thing?"_

_"_Daniel isn't...and my papa..." Lucinda tried to find the words.

He looked at her then. Though his face was expressionless his eyes sparkled with a dangerousness she had seen before. "Your _papa _hasn't been watchin' you too close, has he, laid up like he is? He ain't seen you like the _rest_ of us has." His voice dropped to a deadly tone, "Ought to be ashamed of yourself, little girl. You know that?"

Donut shifted his forelegs nervously, hooves thumping the ground, ears flicking back and forth between the humans. He turned his head to look at Lucinda then back to the man with a snort.

"That alien get at you yet?" The man asked low.

Lucinda felt her face turn red, with anger and embarrassment that he would say such a thing.

_"Hmmm?"_ He mused in the silence, his mouth a grim line. He resumed turning the cane round in his hand and looking at it as if it was of great interest, "It'd be a shame, if somethin' were to happen to..."

"Lucinda?" Naaco's voice echoed around the corner down from the stable's far entrance.

Eye locked on the leering stranger she found her voice, calling our hoarsly, "I'm here."

One corner of the man's mouth twitched.

"Lucinda, Sister Penelope is looking for...what are you doing with that?" the small Elite and his Unggoy companion rounded the corner to see the man standing near the stall door holding Lucinda's cane.

"Yeah," the Grunt agreed in his high pitched creech.

Lucinda watched as Naaco and the stranger seemed to look each other up and down as if carefully sizing one another up. Though slight, the Elite was a formidable six and half feet tall. She wondered if he would really do something if need be. It seemed completely at odds with his generally quiet and subservient nature.

"You're that little one," the man said, smiling again like a snake, "The one them others don't seem to care for. Rumor is, you ain't got no _balls." _He chuckled at his own little joke.

Naaco's eyes narrowed and even as he swallowed hard he took a half step forward, extending an upturned palm for the cane. Yipip pattered from foot to foot at his side, beady eyes shifting with uncertainty.

The man's face broke out into a smile, all bushy beard and crooked teeth. He extended the cane and slapped the opposite end into Naaco's palm. Pulling the brim of his hat back down, he gave Lucinda one last look before ambling away, "You be real careful with yourself now, _little miss."_

* * *

Amy slipped in through the back door of the refactory and into the alcove off the kitchen. She could hear nuns and kitchen staff chattering, pots and pans clanging; and smell the aroma of the second evening meal cooking. Starr was beyond exhausted, and though her stomach was letting loose Pavlovian grumbles at the scent of food, she was on a very specific quest.

Smitty and Trice had the infirmary for the night, so it was time to do a bit of her own grieving.

Amy took hold of a stainless shelf wrung, swinging a section of the rack away from the interior wall, reveling the door behind.

Utilitarian steps of rough cut two- and four-by-four lumber led down into a cellar. Amy lifted a flashlight from just inside the door and illuminated the dark with the beam. Jars of canned goods lined the stairs and filled the nooks where walls had been left as unfinished skeletons backed by sheetrock and concrete. The ceiling was low and the floor a cool slab. The cellar stretched the footprint of the refactory and Amy crept down isles of rough lumber which held more canned goods and plastic crates of vegetables best stored in a dark cool place. Potatoes. Carrots.

The place was a little over half stocked, floor to ceiling.

In the farthest corner a rack was filled with various bottles in a myriad of shapes, their nectar sparkling in a rainbow of hues. This was what the teams had turned in, what was found out and about when scouring the outlying area for usable resources. Amy's mouth curled into a sly smile, knowing some folks had likely kept a bit for themselves. There was no rule against that, and she couldn't say she blamed them. Not after a day like today.

Tucking the flashlight under an arm and taking hold of a slim neck, Amy turned a large bulbous bottle around in the beam. She whistled as she ran a thumb across the gold-leafed label. Hess de Gérard, Grand Cru of 2520. At one time it had cost someone more than she made in an entire _year._

She smiled to herself and snorted softly. Well... _use_ to make, she doubt the UNSC was still paying credits into that account.

Lifting the heavy bottle Amy headed back for the stairs.

* * *

The comms meeting had dragged long and by the time Yipip powered down the communications node and everyone had departed, the suns were drooping beyond the horizon. 'Korid was thankful the day had gone as well as could be expected, and that as the suns set he had been able to stave off the assault until the customary period of mourning had passed, for Kote's sake. Forward reports indicated that the cannibal group was growing restless and increasingly..._ squiggly,_ whatever that meant, according to Captain Gillery of North Entinne. It was little matter how _squiggly _the cannibals got, by dawn they would be dealt with.

Stepping out onto the back stoop of the main house Torsch looked down the courtyard and breathed in the cool evening air. Few people were about but many windows in the dormitories were alight and the sound of chatter and laughter spilled out in a muted garble. Workers were finishing up in the refactory. Lights were still up in the kitchen but only the glow of embers keeping the stew warm illuminated the dining area. A fit of laughter bounded up from the infirmary. Each with a light shining from their tactical vests, two hunam soldiers sat at a small table on the infirmary porch. Guns slung across their backs, they were embroiled in some kind of human card game. One which was clearly...

A sound caught Torsch's attention and he cocked his head, face scrunching as someone around the side of the house wretched painfully. Thumping down the steps he followed the noise, rounding the house to see Amy, one hand propped against the white washed façade as she hung her head. Locks of hair dripped from a loosened ponytail and she pushed them back ineffectually from her face with her other hand, still gripping a large and bulbous wine bottle. She tried to draw deep breaths around her sniffles and sobs, her body going taunt as she braced herself and vomited again.

Finally, standing on shaky legs, she stumbled a step then turned and leaned her back against the wall, putting the bottle to her lips and tipping it skyward.

_"Amy,"_ Torsch said in a whisper, his skin crawling as concern overrode pride.

She did not notice him until he pulled the bottle from her hand. She fought him, if it was to be called that. She reached weakly and grumbled before stumbling back and leaning heavily against the wall.

Torsch looked at her leaning there as she staggered in place and struggled to remain upright.

He sighed and admonished softly, "That is enough," then he gave the bottle a cross look as he tipped it over by its neck and less than half a glass poured out onto the ground.

"You can't-t do-oothis," Amy slurred, her breath hitching. She doubled over and vomited again, her body heaving until there was nothing left.

Torsch shook his head, his hearts softening. "You are intoxicated, Amy," he whispered gently.

"I'm...n-not gon-na' lety-you..." she wagged an unsteady finger at him.

With a weary sigh he said, "Come on, inside you go." He stepped near and scooped a limp Amy up in his arms. She squirmed weakly, lolling her head from one side to the other before sinking against him and mumbling incoherently into his chest as he carried her into the house.

"P-Penny..."she said, looking up with a start and gazing around with wide eyes, fresh tears streaming down her face.

_"Shhh,_ I know," he said gently, mounting the staircase.

"It's n-not fair," she said, eyes clamping shut against the deluge, "He-he lovesher."

"I know," Torsch whispered, "I know."

He toed open the door to her quarters and found her room cluttered and cramped. Wedging his way in, 'Korid set Amy on the edge of her bed. While he collected papers and scrolls and deposited them in an already overflowing box she mumbled and cried broken, quiet sobs.

He had never seen her like this. He had seen her cry before, yes, but nothing like this. It occurred to him then just how much she was suffering. How helpless and alone she had to feel...

He tried not to think of her like that. This was simply...a _moment_ of weakness. One well earned.

By the time he had her bed clear, Amy was leaning against the adjacent wall, slumped at an uncomfortable angle into the corner. Torsch guided her down onto the mattress and began struggling with her boot laces.

"Youc-can't hurt h-him...I won-won't letyou."

"Alright," he said softly, pulling her boots from her feet and swinging her legs onto the bed.

"I'mean i-it...I'llsh shoo-ootyou, T-Torsch 'Kor-orid."

He smiled at that and murmured assuredly, "Of course you will."

She cried anew into her pillow, pulling a sheet up over her head. Torsch stood there for a moment, remembering that for all the pain she had caused him she _had_ been there for him in his time of grief. Rubbing his forehead, 'Korid eased himself down onto the floor, leaning his back against the bed frame and stretching his legs out into the only available space: the path from the door to the bed.

When she quieted to intermittent sniffles he spoke with soft resolution, as if explaining some adult matter to a child, "No one is going to harm him, Amy. Not any of them," he looked down at his hands, "I will not authorize it. You need not worry any longer about that."

_Sniff...sniff,_ "Torsch?" she said in a tiny voice as if she had not heard him.

He felt the bed move against his back as she rolled over. Glancing over his shoulder he saw that she had curled herself up into a ball. She had the bed sheets tucked under her chin as she looked out with glassy, bloodshot eyes.

He did not have the hearts to admonish her for using his common name, not tonight, "Yes, Amy?"

"What are lollies like?"

A hot wave washed across his skin, and he felt his face purple. _"What?"_ he rasped, his mind racing with the connotations of that word.

_Lollies_ was the derogatory term for strong willed and dangerously beautiful women. _Lollies_ was the moniker of an extremely potent psychotropic sexual stimulant derived from...

"The night blooming f-flower of Sanghelios," she said wistfully.

"Oh.. _ahem..._ yes," he stumbled over the words, his throat feeling dry as he tried to swallow.

_They were also that._

Somehow Torsch's hearts managed not to beat out of his chest, "Lollies," he said carefully, "are very rare."

Amy snuggled into her bed and closed her eyes.

"They bloom only in the summer, in the scorched sand of the deserts," he said, his expression mirroring hers as a contented smile curled her full lips.

"Conditions must be perfectly inhospitable," he went on in a soothing, low rumble, turning himself about awkwardly to face her. "When drought has been hard and all other plant life has turned to dust; on a night with the moons are new and the stars alone fill the sky, that is when lollies emerge to bloom."

"Whatdo they looklike?" she asked, already drifting.

He thought for a moment. He had never actually seen lollies in person, not the _flowers_ anyway.

"They are beautiful," he said, reaching to gently tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, "So beautiful it is painful to look at them. _Dangerous_ to touch...so intoxicating they can cause a man to lose track of days at a time."

She hummed a sleepy sound, already gone to him. Torsch ran a knuckle along her cheek, letting the feel of her soft skin send a tingle down his arm and reignite all the pain that came with realizing she did not truly care for him.

He blinked.

_What in the hells was he doing?_

Torsch pulled his hand away and looked at the appendage as if it had betrayed him. He snorted at himself. Feeling the fool, 'Korid rose from the floor and retreated as quickly and quietly as the creaking floors would allow.

* * *

**Sub Note: ***hides*

In all seriousness though, this was one of the hardest chapters I have ever written. I probably cried more than I should have considering it was my decision for things to go this way. Don't hate me too much...I wanted Penny and Kote to have a 'happily ever after' just as much as anyone but the needs of the story would just not let me. It'll make sense eventually.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-Six

**Caddo Parish/ Wesley Mill Road**

It could not have been called a battle. At least, not without a great feat of intellectual gymnastics. Field Master 'Caaln surveyed the utter carnage that stretched out before him and thought, _No. No battle happened here this day. This was_ _a_ _slaughter._

More than a thousand Sangheili warriors had surrounded the site over the three day period, breaking off into waves to insure none escaped and converging on the location to face largely unarmed, unprepared, uncoordinated, and sickly opponents.

It was ugly work, crushing so thoroughly an oposition composed of largely innocents.

It could not even have been said that they had at least died well. The cries and shrieks of terror and of dying had pierced his ears until falling abruptly to a roaring silence. At least it had ended quickly, and with it their suffering.

Now, scattered across the landscape, nearly two hundred humans lay charred amungst the remains of their crude and overturned encampment. 'Caaln shook his head. There was little to be proud of here, and the Elites under his command were appropriately somber as they went about their remaining grizzly tasks. They were inspecting the bodies and taking pains to locate and dispatch those who were yet clinging to life. Others were collecting the remains, policing the scattered effects and depositing the corpses and items into low heaps flagged with magnetic targeting markers. Everything these people had been and touched within a sizeable cordon of the ground surrounding that on which they had lived and died would be doused with sufficient fossil fuels and incinerated.

_Ugly work._

The only solace which the Field Master took as he looked over the carnage was that this slaughter, this..._ extermination_ carried out against _these_ humans had been necessary. It had not been necessary for these people to have been exposed to a contagion in the first place, that was a thoughtless and reckless endeavor undertaken for selfish and barbaric reasons; but...that would be a reckoning for _another_ man on another day. 'Caaln hoped, for all the death he had dealt the human race in his lengthy, if ultimately erroneous, service to the Covenant, at least the blood for _these_ human souls would not be his to make an accounting for in the hereafter.

"Objective complete, Field Master," came the clipped report over 'Caaln's helm relay.

He let a moment slip by in reverence to the meaning of those words before responding, "Understood." Then, "Major 'Hakkamr, you may send them in."

The solemn stillness which had permeated the air since the end of the brief direct engagement was broken by the collective mechanical and laborious noise of several human vehicles coughing to life in the far distance. The sound traveled from the Saint Vincent's forward staging line, and was carried through the cool pre-dawn air across the eastern darkness to roll in a mutter over the descimated remains to finally be transferred through 'Caaln's helm pickups. It was lengthy minutes before he could discern boxy trucks plodding toward the site's footprint and several more before these vehicles reached their target. Warriors swarmed the smaller of the vehicles, removing large canisters stowed in the rear beds and moving to distribute the vessels amungst themselves and empty the liquid contents over the masses of corpses and debries and dousing the buildings. The final truck in the line was a noisy cube which pulled a large cylindrical tank. As it idled, relief valves along the top hissed open and empty canisters were returned to be filled from ports in the back. By their sheer number the soldiers had the task completed swiftly. While the smaller human vehicles returned from whence they came the tanker jerked and sputtered under the guidence of an in experienced Elite driver, sloshing along and spilling the last of its contents before having its end capped and being guided in fits and starts back into the darkness.

Without prompt the soldiers fell into loose assemblage behind, headed afoot at a brisk pace to the ready decontamination zone. The Field Master stood surveying the field for long moments before turning to follow in their wake.

Comms checks began to roll in from every movement and file; every man was accounted for and confirmed to be out of the kill zone. Away and stepping into the decontamination area, 'Caaln was the last to check his comms, loathe to proceed his men away from battle in any wise. Once his transmission was acknowledged the Field Master called the all clear and made an abbrieviated report over comms back to Major 'Korid at the Saint Vincent's command center.

A moment passed, then, "Proceed at your will," came the reply.

Without so much as a pause, "Ready primary cannon," 'Caaln said evenly.

Captain Gillery's voice crackled across the comms, "Primary cannon ready."

"You heard him." 'Caaln said without emotion, "Burn it."

Tucked inside the Wraith far across the field, Captain Gillery was watching through the secondary gunner's forward view screen when the vehicle's driver, the Sangheili equivalent of a tanker, Spec Ops Minor Zern 'Soma did whatever was required to initiate the firing sequence. Lights and instruments momentarily dimmed and Gill could feel more than hear the hum of the main cannon's field generator priming an electromagnetic suspension field. With a rumbling hiss, the Wraith spit out a parabolic round of high-mass, super heated hydron plasma which passed through the vehicle's shield flux with a crackling snap of energy. The magnetically encapsulated round lit the sky in a trailing arc of angrily popping atmosphere and was carried at a low velocity in a magnetically guided trajectory toward the markers in the field.

When the round impacted there was a rhythmic, heavy rumbling as the concussion force collapsed the mortar's magnetic suspension field and sent out a wash of hydron with its explosion which ignited the waiting fossil fuels. The subsequent blaze sucked up available oxygen in a gulp and the rapidly expanding plasma wash ignited everything within the mortar's blast zone in an expanding wave of fire which crawled out from the impact radius.

Gill watched the show occurring downrange as behind him the Wraith's primary cannon began to prime for another blast. By the time it was done the field would be reduced to ash and smoldering slag. What might have been considered overkill given the Covenant mortar's properties was not enough to satisfy the Elites given what Cean's doctor had said about the sickness. All caution was being taken to insure the local contagion was thoroughly obliterated and the cleansing fires fed with enough fuel to be certain everything in the hot zone not in the direct line of fire was rendered vapor and ash.

The combined concussion force of five successive 35cm plasma mortars striking and igniting the target area was enough to make the ground tremble beneath 'Caaln's feet nearly a mile away. As he stood looking back toward the hot zone the sky lit up in a blue-green glow of plasma and fuel fires which radiated up in a muted haze and colored the underside of low cloud cover. The Sangheili commander turned away from the spectacle as the blaze began to die down, knowing that what was once a hovel of struggling life was now nothing but moldering, cooling pools of glass.

* * *

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

The official meeting of command staff was set to occur late in the morning following the bombardment. Amy managed to make it, somehow dragging herself out of bed in the hour beforehand, feeling like she had been hit by a truck, thirsty and with the taste of rancid death in her mouth. Armed with clean clothing and her hygiene bag, Starr had struck for the upstairs shower to ponder events of the night before. She couldn't remember much past finding a nice spot on the front lawn to enjoy her alcohol alone... and what she could remember made no sense no matter how long she stood under the shower's spray and thought about it.

Well, getting into an argument with Stealth Major Ass-hole was situation normal so that was probably a good recollection, but the rest of it seemed completely out of character and was a bit fuzzy.

Okay, a lot fuzzy.

Showered and dressed in ripped jeans and a thin white t-shirt, Starr padding back to her room where she wound her wet hair up into a bun and secured it with a pencil. Donning low boots with the steel showing through one toe and her fatigue blouse she set off for the downstairs.

There, she almost ran smack into Naaco as he had come in from the side door at the same time she made the landing.

He shuffled back a step, casting her a fleeting and tentative smile, "Amy, th..."

"Wait," she had said, side-stepping around him and into the kitchen, "I need coffee before I can think today."

Of course, it had come out more like _"Mercoffeethurmdray"_ but Naaco got the point and had given her space, following to watch patiently as Amy had hunted down a clean cup.

Steaming brew in hand she had waved Naaco on. He proceeded to tell her about the upcoming command meeting and, when he had filled her in and scurried off to the dining room she had stepped out onto the side stoop just in time to see a Wraith, it all its glory, accompanied by a rattling human truck make the end of the courtyard.

As she watched and let the caffeine seep into her muddled brain, Stealth Major Torsch 'Korid greeted the newcomers. There was a hushed bustle of excitement buzzing in the air about the complex and from her perch Amy could see residents eagerly finding reasons or excuses to come and see the arrivals. As Starr sipped her coffee, 'Korid began leading the men, two Elites and two humans, up the courtyard to the main house.

Introductions were kept brief, though slightly more than a mere placing of faces to voices and names which had become familiar as the group collected in the communication/dining room.

There was Field Master Nosalstius 'Caaln, a man who made his feelings regarding dealing quickly and thoroughly with Azrael Ashmund abundantly clear right off, and in very few words. The Sangheili officer had a presence, though it quickly became evident that the weight of what he had ordered and subsequently witnessed his men carry out weighed heavily on his conscience. To this was added the obvious disappointment at finding Daniel was absent the proceedings; more so that the man he knew as his Legion Master was alive and present in the complex but altogether unwilling to lead.

"We rejoiced," 'Caaln rumbled, slipping a scuffed helm from his head and placing it on the table in front of the seat reserved for him, "upon receiving instructions originating from 'Berovai's cartographer. Believing the man yet lived sustained those of us flung wide across this planet when the ships were destroyed. Moral will suffer knowing he is effectively dead."

"We would follow him into the mouths of hell." The comment came from Special Operations Minor Fal 'Oosuk, a young soldier who had found himself by necessity field promoted to a command position and leading a small contingent of surviving Elites and humans from Cean.

'Korid gave the wiry Sangheili a nod, "Unfortunately for us, the hell he has entered is one of his own making," Caaln wagged his head with thoughtful sadness as Torsch went on, "There is a place we cannot join him."

While the Elites continued on in their discussion, reverting into their native language, Captain Marcus Gillery took the moment to better acquaint himself with Amy. He rounded the table and eagerly thrust a hand toward her, "Gill," he said, giving her a disarming smile.

"You're not UNSC," Amy heard herself say blandly, shaking the offered hand and eyeing the faded Ambrosia II Department of Corrections uniform, which Gill's tall muscular brawn filled to show off his wide chest and bulging arms.

He didn't seem offended. On the contrary, the jab just seemed to make Gillery beam wider, dimples appearing in his cheeks beneath a blonde travesty of beard, "Aww, you're not gonna' be like that are you? And here I was thinking how much prettier you are in person."

Amy arched a brow, "Flattery will get you nowhere around here, Gill."

"But you can't blame a man for trying," he quipped, grinning like a fiend. He winked, looking her over, "From where I'm standing, I'd sure blame him if he didn't."

Amy snorted in response, "Are you for real?"

"Unfortunately, yes," 'Caaln rumbled, turning his brawn from his Elite compatriots and interjecting himself casually, "However, allow me to put your mind at ease, Sergeant Starr, despite his vulgarity, Captain Gillery has served at my side adequately. He has proven himself apt in leading our human contingent even when one considers his limited and purely theoretical military knowledge."

Amy felt herself grin at the comically brooding expression which clouded Gillery's face.

_"Gee,"_ Gill said sarcastically, cutting his eyes at the Elite, "Thanks for clearing that up, _Field Marshal."_

Torsch and Fal gave Gill disconcerted looks but 'Caaln simply made a gesture with his mandibles which Amy knew was the Elite equivalent to an eye-roll, "You are most welcome, _Captain." _He quipped.

_"Madame,"_ a bizarre figure offered as the Elites returned to their talk, "I fear what you might think of me." With a rifle slung across his back, this man stepped before her dressed in rumpled clothing which was at one time the height of fashion, tailored to every inch of his tall, lank frame. No one would have mistaken him for military, or law enforcement for that matter. Instead of shaking, he took Amy's fingers with a flourish and lightly brushed a kiss atop her hand.

When she recovered from the unexpected gesture, Starr stood back and looked at him cautiously.

"And this _smooth operator_ is Pierre Croix," Gill said.

Gillery seemed to wait, his deep hazel eyes sparkling as they darted back and forth between Amy and Pierre. The ADC Captain seemed barely able to contain his amusement as Amy looked the other man over.

_"The_ Pierre Croix," Gill offered, bobbing his eyebrows expectantly.

Amy squinted, drawing her mouth into a thin, hard line if for no other reason than to keep herself from smiling.

"He was something of a tailor," Fal cast over his shoulder in a deep rumble as if to help.

At this Pierre made a sickening noise in his throat and languidly rolled his eyes. Pinching up his dark African features he let loose with a torrent of French expletives, a smile hinting at his lips, "I will have you know, _monsieur,_ I am not a _tailor."_ He said the last word with open disgust. The Elite shrugged and turned away.

Pausing to pinch the bridge of his nose between the tips of a thumb and index finger Pierre composed himself. He daintily pirched a hand against his chest and turning to Amy went on, _"Pardone_ my companion's utter ignorance, _madame,_ but allow me to clarify, _I _was one of the premier up-and-coming designers of the House Duvall. I am a _clothier,"_ he then gave one tab of his collar a smart jerk and eyed the back of Fal's head playfully as if highly put upon, "Not a tailor."

Gill chuckled and shook his head.

"You were here for Governor Krumfelt's gala," Amy said, surprising both men.

_"Oui,"_ Croix chirped, his eyes going wide as he clasped his hands and beamed at the recognition, his spirits bolstered. He stepped back and gave a little bow. "You know my work?"

Amy nodded, then wagged her head from side to side in a gesture of non-committance, noticing the appreciative smirk on Gillery's face, "I served with Ignacio Garcia." She said.

Pierre's smile wilted at the corners.

"Krumfelt mentioned the gala during one of our pow-wows for media relations," Amy clarified. "He was pretty surprised you were willing to come all this way _just_ to put the finishing touches on the dresses for his wife and daughter."

Croix gave her a sheepish look.

"Ignacio spoke highly of you."

Pierre averted his eyes to his alligator boots.

"I understand you were close to his son," Amy added softly.

The man managed to nod, "Eduard...he...he didn't make it..."

Croix struggled with the words many were still unable to speak.

"I'm sorry," Amy said.

"No, no." Pierre said suddenly, dabbing his eyes and regaining his composure, straightening his shirt collar, "I am glad to be here," through his pain and unshed tears he forced a sardonic face, "While I'm sure Murie Duvall is going out of his mind without his top designer, but oh, _oui,_ the show will go on. There is nowhere in the galaxy I would rather be than where Eduard drew his last..." he sniffed defiantly, hooking his thumbs under the rifle sling which crossed his chest, "...than here."

With that, Torsch cleared his throat and beckoned everyone to sit so they could get down to the business at hand.

* * *

The meeting carried on into the afternoon. Field Master 'Caaln had listened intently as Torsch had gone over, in detail, what he and Major 'Hakkamr had gathered from Hagart and the plan of attack against Ashmund's forces as it was currently formulated. This was supplemented by hard information on numbers provided by Naaco, which 'Caaln reviewed carefully. In all, and as the most senior Sangheili soldier at the table, the Field Master found the battle plan agreeable with no immediate suggestions.

'Caaln's human counterpart, Captain Marcus Gillery, an overly smiling and inappropriately jovial human male who seemed to enjoy hearing his own voice, had asked innumerable questions, engaging Amy at every turn. He expressed what appeared to be genuine curiosity at the prospect of the experimental weapons she mentioned, and questioned her about them at some length.

In truth, this irritated Torsch for a number of reasons he could not quite grasp, chief among them that the existence of these weapons was a thing which he had dismissed and not put a great deal of consideration to, realizing only then that he had allowed his hurt feelings and stubbornness to blind him to the genuine utility. That a man who had no military training in a conventional sense would see this was a blow to 'Korid's pride.

Gillery made no secret that his rank and service as the commander of on an elite team within the corrections department had been the catalyst which thrust him to lead the human team of reinforcements from North Etienne. This had been at the behest of a UNSC Major who wished to remain behind to coordinate the effort from there in conjunction with 'Caaln's only surviving Stealth Operations General.

Minor 'Oosuk held his peace throughout the meeting, having the least to offer militarily in the way of both experience and power. Cean had been a small city, little more than a township which had outsourced its police force to neighboring New Saint Etienne. There was not a true soldier or trained member of law enforcement to be found among the humans there. With him, 'Oosuk had brought a handful of untrained human civilians willing to complement his force of largely rookie Sangheili soldiers. The flamboyant Pierre Croix had been elected head of the human movement based solely on name recognition and amenities personality and not on any martial merit. Still, it was commendable he would take up arms and make the journey given this admitted deficiency. They left behind as their Sangheili/human counterparts to oversee Cean a Spec Ops Minor junior in grade to Fal and the aged chief of a small volunteer fire department.

Yipip came in at the appointed time and contact was made with Cean and North Etienne via comms. It was this communication which carried the meeting longer than anticipated. It was agreed that all haste would be made to ready an assault and finalize details in the coming days. While the reinforcements were admittedly travel weary their command staff assured 'Korid all were eager to proceed. Those who lingered behind at the respective represented cities made it clear they were also ready. North Etienne soldiers had prepared several launch bridges in order to traverse personnel and supplies across the river and to effect points of direct entry and attack into her neighboring city when the time came.

"I know this is a bit off topic," Amy said, resting her elbows on the table and steepling her fingers before her face with a sigh, "But, it's become my responsibility to keep the civilians around here in the loop and placated as much as possible... while I'm just as hungry for some payback as anyone, if I could ask for a day, just a day; use it however you want, to let the guys who've come a long way get a home-cooked meal and a bath, rest up, whatever, but I could really use a day to let the civvies know what happened this morning wasn't taken lightly. To let them greave, to see that those people mattered to us. It would really make that part of my job a little easier."

Field Master 'Caaln leaned back in his chair and studied the woman while Croix nodded thoughtfully and Gillery shifted in his seat, giving Amy a sympathetic look. In the uncomfortable silence, 'Oosuk looked to each of the senior warriors for a cue as to what his own opinion should be.

That was the moment when Torsch looked at Amy and saw just how great the burden she was carrying, how much the loss of Penny Laroche had magnified her stress.

"I believe that would be agreeable," he heard himself saying far more gently than he had intended.

"Yes," 'Caaln rumbled, straightening in his chair.

Those at the other ends of the comms were voicing their agreement when Kote 'Hakkamr stepped in through the kitchen door and crossed into the room.

"Stealth Major," he addressed 'Korid, then giving a nod of acknowledgement to the senior ranking, though guest in the house, and the others, "Field Master, gentlemen, my lady, troops are fully through decontamination and arrangements have been made at the fore for appropriate encampment of the reinforcing parties."

"Then, let us adjourn for the evening," Torsch said, addressing the comms, "Gentlemen, until tomorrow, when we will formalize our plan in detail."

With that, the men across the comms signed off and everyone rose from their seats. The proceedings broke without ceremony, 'Caaln and 'Oosuk stopping to more formally greet 'Hakkamr. As he lingered about the Sangheili discussion, 'Korid watched from the corner of his eye as Croix bid Gillery and Amy _ado _until the morrow.

Unknowingly under Torsch's watchful eye, the humans made their way through the kitchen. Gillery held open the door and when Croix had disappeared out onto the stoop the Captain addressed Amy with a shameless grin.

"So, how's about you let men take you to dinner?"

Amy paused, seeming stunned at this forwardness, "What?" she finally asked, a look of complete, horrified confusion on her face.

"I hear there's a great little place, serves a mean stew," Gillery went on, bobbing his eyebrows in play.

The vague thought of walking over there and tearing the man's head off passed through Torsch's mind, but he choked it back.

"I don't think so," Amy said, folding her arms.

Gillery stepped back and studied her a moment, "Alright," he said, clearly changing gears, "How about you let me follow you in the general direction of dinner."

Amy's eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.

"No date. Scout's honor. Let's say we happen to be after a meal at the same time and I happen to sit in your proximity and you agree to not shoot me if I happen to talk to you."

There was a long pause in which Amy's face belied no expression.

Then, "Fine," she said, "but no promises on not shooting you," the hint of a smile cracked her lips as she disappeared out the door. Gillery pumped the air with his fist and followed.

Torsch stood there, he knew not for how long, simply staring after the door while his mind refused to form a clear thought around what he had just witnessed and the emotions it set loose. Jealousy was not befitting a warrior, so certainly he should not feel that. But, he did. He wanted to hold on to the belief that he had done nothing wrong... but even that eluded him as the feeling that he had made a mistake again whispered it's unwelcome message.

This was precisely the reason he had stayed away from women for most of his life, why even after refusing a noble's honorary title he had not sought to marry, though that was the reason he had touted for refusing the suffix. Even knowing he had been nothing to her, watching Amy being pursued by another hurt more than Torsch could have ever thought.

"Major 'Korid?"

Torsch turned to find himself and Kote standing alone in the comms/dining room. He had never even seen 'Caaln and 'Oosuk exit.

"Yes," 'Korid cleared his throat, "Yes?"

Kote looked at him long and hard then turned and fixed his gaze on the kitchen door, "I will never know if Penny heard me," he said softly, "I will never know if she knew how much I cared for her...how much I _still_ care for her. How desperately _I love her_," his voice wavered, "I was too proud... too much the coward to say the words. And you..." At that 'Hakkamr seemed to deflate, drawing into himself as his eyes glazed over and he turned and walked away.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

"This is a pretty happening joint you've got here, Sergeant Starr," Gill said, looking around at the crowd as he liberally salted his heaping plate of roast beef and steamed vegetables.

He sat directly opposite Amy at a peeling Formica table in a molded plastic seat reminiscent of another era. The refactory's dining hall was bustling as the second evening meal was beginning to kick into high gear. A few civilians poked about, but mostly it was teams coming off of duty rotation who where making their way through the serving line, more than a few opting to bypass the wait and filling bowls from the stew pot. Tables around them were filling fast and chatter was a dull roar punctuated by intermittent shouts and clangs from the kitchen.

Amy shrugged a shoulder and moved the food around on her plate, realizing it was the first time she had sat down to an actual meal since that night she and Torsch had first...

She cleared her throat, suddenly not hungry and not wanting to dwell on why.

"So, um..." Gill tried, seeming to pick up on her sudden discomfort, "How'd a lady like you wind up in a place like..." his word's trailed off and his mouth hung open as he fixed on something just over Amy's shoulder. His eyes looked like they were about bug out of his head.

Glancing toward the chow line, Amy saw that Allison Winnefrid and Dak 'Valemai had walked in escorting Charlie and Lance. When Starr turned back to Gillery he was three shades paler and still gaping.

Amy smirked.

It took a few moments, but Gill eventually recovered. Clearing his throat and jabbing at his steamed potatoes he asked, "Where did you find that bruiser?"

"He found us, actually."

Gill puffed out a breath and shook his head, "I'd have shit my pants if I saw that coming towards me. I didn't know they even made 'em in that size."

Amy chuckled. Dak was pretty terrifying to look at. She'd have called him a gentile giant, but then again...

Behind Gill, Winnefrid was trying desperately to snag Amy's attention from the chow line. The brawny woman's eyes were twinkling as she gestured toward Gill, a wide grin across her face.

Amy pursed her lips, "That's Spec Ops General 'Varlemai."

"Ah, _'_Varlem_-ai,"_ he put emphasis on the suffix, "A Swordsman, that's just peachy."

"Mmm," Amy hummed, "A Blademaster, actually."

Gill smiled sardonically, "Even better," he shoveled a chunk of roast beef into his mouth.

"To hear some of my guys talk, they think he's really a spy for some super secret religious sect who wanted to overthrow the Covenant."

_"Christ,"_ Gill laughed, covering his mouth.

"And that he's a ninth level Master Swordsman, an assassin."

Gillery almost choked, "Great," he coughed, setting his fork down and pretending to make a side note on the table top, "Stay... away... from the huge guy. Got it."

Amy chuckled, "Can't be any worse than 'Caaln. He's not a Swordsman, but the Sangheili don't exactly hand out rank like candy, and he did come all this way and somehow managed not to kill _you..._ yet."

"I see how it is. The day isn't over yet, huh? What can I say? It must be my charm. Besides, under all that Sangheili rank I get the idea 'Caaln's really just a hick."

"What?" Amy laughed.

"No joke. He said something about growing up in the mountains, living off the land. Grits and 'possum gravy and all kind of stuff. A real backwoods hillbilly."

"Um-hum," Amy droned, taking a bite out of a yeast roll.

"But enough about him," Gill said with a characteristic bob of the eyebrows, lifting his fork to skewer a steamed carrot.

"_Hi_."

Amy looked up to see Allison Winnefrid standing next to the table with her box lunch. The woman was dressed in what passed for military attire: scuffed combat boots, faded fatigue pants, and a rock band t-shirt overlaid with an assault rig and worn battle plates. Her helmet hung behind her shoulder by the chin strap like a purse.

"_Well, hello_," Gillery said smoothly as he stood.

Winnefrid juggled her food container awkwardly and shook his hand, shooting Amy a fan-girl look.

"Gill, this is Corporal Allison Winnefrid," Starr said, "Allison, Captain Marcus Gillery," then she added, "_Department of Corrections_."

He smirked with false irritation, "Thanks, Aims, just can't let a guy live it down."

Amy squinted at him as he released Allison's hand.

_Aims? _

"Nice to meet you," Allison breathed, the words sounding more like _'You're so pretty'_.

Amy half expected the other woman to squeal.

Behind Winnefrid, the collared Charlie and Lance walked by carrying several closed containers of food and followed at a distance by Dak. The Elite strolled along, not a care in the universe, and paused long enough to give Amy a nod then let his eyes graze over Gillery. Not waiting for introductions, Dak snorted then glanced at Winnefrid and jerked his chins toward the door before stepping off to continue after his wards.

"Oh, that's my cue. Gotta' go," Allison beamed, bounding away with a doofy grin and another, "Nice to meet you."

Amy shook her head as Gillery sat back down, his lips twisted into a lopsided smirk.

Over his shoulder Amy caught Winnefrid at the side door waving, juggling her dinner in one arm as she fanned herself, mouthing _'He's hot,_' before Dak took the woman's flailing arm and dragged her out the door.

Amy rolled her eyes.

"Nice girl, but man, the big guy'll talk your ear off, won't he? _Sheesh_." Gill said with mock exasperation.

"Yeah, Dak's not much for conversation."

"Mmm...that the Deléon boys they were escorting?"

"Yeah, well, Charlie and Hagart's brother-in-law, Lance," Amy said, "They don't usually get the star treatment, but with all your guys going to be coming in and out and people around here up in their feelings, I don't suppose Dak wants to take any chances."

"_My_ guys?"

Amy gave him a sardonic look and smartly forked a steamed potato chunk in her mouth.

"I'd heard you'd bagged a few from near New Saint E, one injured, one real fire-ball."

Amy hummed and sighed wearily, "Yeah, thus the jewelry."

"Oh?"

"Explosive collars."

"Yikes."

"Charlie and Lance get a pass for good behavior, Dak's got this joker, Donnovan Jones, under lock and key in a little make shift jail on account of he's a real piece of work and one of Ashmund's bafoons. Hagart was injured, took a good tumble and broke some bones in his foot, but the other three are no worse for wear. I've been keeping some of my guys posted at the infirmary until Hagart gets on his feet and mobile again, which could be a while."

Gill furrowed his brow ridges, "Why the guard duty?"

Amy thought a moment, the hazy memory of Torsch telling her she didn't have to worry about that any longer bubbling up through her mind. She shrugged, "They're prisoners, and it makes people feel safe for now. I'd like to call a full truce, they have been cooperative," she tip-toed around the real reason, "but, like I said, people are barely holding on to civility with the Elites about all of this. We're all running a little low on... _shit_."

Averting her gaze, Amy propped an elbow on the table and shielded her eyes with a hand, hoping Tom Beauchaine hadn't seen her sitting there. "This is not what I need today," she growled, peeking to see the man strolling her way.

"What? Is the Elite giant coming back? Don't worry," Gill said, twisting in his seat, "I'll let you protect me."

"No," Amy muttered, "_Him_. In the tan coat and camo hat. Walking this way. From the side door. Other side."

Gill turned, looking through the crowd. "I see him," he frowned, "Friend of yours?"

"Hell no. He's a real jerk. Shot his mouth off at a meeting I was trying to have with the civvies the other day. Will probably make a scene again when I go to talk to them tonight," Starr felt dread twisting in her guts. Tom looked like he was ready to make a scene _right there_, "Look, Gill," she said, hearing the worry in her own voice. She didn't care what people said or thought about her. She didn't even care if people wanted to judge her for her involvement with Torsch, but the idea of being publicly humiliated again gave way to panic. This wasn't exactly the time or place to trot that bit of personal information out and Thomas Beauchaine was definitely _not_ the person who should do it. "There's something..." she began.

"I got this," Gill interrupted, dropping his fork and reaching to give her hand a reassuring squeeze in one fluid movement. The fleeting glace he gave her showed compassion and understanding.

She wanted to protest but Gillery stood, not waiting to listen, suddenly all bearing and brute force as he turned from the table.

Amy watched as he muscled his way through the crowd then paused to let an older woman carrying a tray pass before taking a determined stride directly in front of the approaching Beauchaine, stopping the man in his tracks. Tom opened his mouth like he was about to speak but clamped it shut as if he had thought better of it.

"Hey, uh..." Tom managed to gulp.

"Hey, yourself," Gill growled, whipping out some of the bluster no doubt necessary to deal with prison inmates and focusing it on the man, "Is there a problem, pal?"

"Um..."

"Is there gonna' _be_ a problem?"

"N-no'sir?"

"Good. Now, let's step over here a minute and have a talk about this problem we're _not_ going to have."

With that, Gill herded Tom off into a corner. The ADC Captain didn't lay a finger on the other man but looked ready to break him in half if he didn't comply. Amy wasn't sure how much was bluff and how much was Gillery hoping he'd get to go hands-on with the weasel.

A few people watched from the corners of their eyes, some of the soldiers snickering and nodding their approval while most of the civilians gaped as Thomas Beauchaine was given what looked to be a severe, if hushed, talking to. Amy did her best not to stare. Usually, she wasn't okay with the whole chivalrous, macho man butting in thing, but in this instance, it sure felt nice to have someone jump to her defense instead of jumping to conclusions.

Even Gator and Father Bradshaw were standing back, holding up at the door and admiring the royal ass chewing taking place.

Amy wasn't sure what to think. She was inwardly happy to see Beauchaine getting a what-for, and she had to admit she had kind of actually enjoyed having company for an almost normal dinner, and the company of a man who was completely uninhibited and seemed able to keep up with her wit at that. Sure, he had come on kinda' strong, but Amy had figured out pretty fast that was just the way he was. Hell, Gill had playfully bantered with the _nuns_ in the damn serving line. Flirtation seemed to be a part of his personality. And this Marcus Gillery was sure making up for that whole taking-her-out-to-dinner gaff.

"_I mean it_," Amy heard Gill say as he elevated his voice for the first time.

Beauchaine had his face downturned, hat in his hands as he nodded like a scolded child. Gill finally let up, drawing his mouth into a line and glowering angrily. Tom just stood there meekly, thoroughly cowed. Gill squinted at him, then peeled himself away and slipped back across the room and into his seat, smiling like nothing had happened. He picked up his fork and the refactory resumed its buzz and bustle.

Amy stared at him, "What..." she stumbled, "What did you say to him?"

Gill chewed and smiled, all dimpled cheeks and the happy camper, taking his time before answering, "Just that I heard he likes to get disorderly and interrupt a pretty lady while she's trying to hold a meeting... or something to that effect."

Amy arched an eyebrow.

Gill shrugged, ""And that I'll be dropping by tonight to make sure it doesn't happen again."

* * *

"Just go talk to her," PFC Kurt Jordan said, watching as Eeth single handedly wagged the 50 caliber monstrosity and seated it in the couplers on the A frame.

"I do not believe so," Eeth rumbled, busying himself with checking the alignment.

"Oh, come on," Jordan crooned, following the Elite around the tail of the truck, "She doesn't bite...I mean, unless you're into that kind of thing."

"No," Eeth droned in a bored tone.

"No, you're not into that kind of thing or no..."

The Elite sighed heavily, "No, as is in, _no thank you_. I do not require your assistance in this matter."

"Ah-ha!" Jordan snorted, pointing at him with a socket wrench, "So you admit there is a matter in the first place, that's a start. The first step is admitting you have a problem..."

"The only problem I have," Eeth growled, ducking his head and lowering his voice as his eyes darted to the others who were working at the far end of the forge at a work bench, "_is that you will not close your mouth_," he hissed.

Jordan snorted, "Oh, come on," he said, "You're making too big a deal out of this. Just lay some of that fancy Sangheili courtship protocol on her. It's not that hard. Besides, she's easy."

"Excuse me?" Peach snapped, emerging from around the front of the truck, pry bar in hand.

Eeth gave Jordan a look and motioned with a genteel gesture for the human male to continue.

"I mean," the tattooed Kurt back peddled, eyes wide and a weak smile on his face, "She's... easy to talk to." He flashed her a cheesy grin.

"Nice try, ass hole," Peach glowered, patting the curved end of the pry bar in her upturned palm.

Jordan laughed nervously and tried to take a step behind Eeth, to which the Elite danced back and shoved the human soldier forward, "Oh, no, by all means, please, demonstrate more of this _protocol_ I should use. I wish to see how this turns out for you."

"_You're a dead man_," Peach howled, stepping forward and raising the pry bar over her head.

"Oh, shit," Jordan yelped, taking flight across the forge.

Peach took three good steps in chase then stopped, dangling the impromptu weapon at her side and shaking her head, "_Coward_," she shouted as Jordan dove across an empty work bench and disappeared in a crash over the other side.

All of the Elites paused in their work and turned to stare. Cory Trice _ooed_ loudly and Locket cuffed him in the arm.

"You heard me," Peach snapped, shifting uncomfortably under the aliens' combined gaze.

Eeth looked her up and down in the silence, "What have you to say?" he finally called across the forge.

Jordan thrust a hand above the lip of the table, finger pointed in exclamation, "Know when to pick your battles!" he cried.

Eeth folded his arms, "That is your answer to her charge against you?"

"Um...live to fight another day!" Jordan yelled.

As the others shook their heads and went back to work, Eeth muttered something about 'humans' as he began sauntering across the forge, "In my culture to be called a coward is one of the worst insults to be made of a man. One which would demand an answer," Eeth leaned over the table, bracing his large sarian hands against the top of the work bench and looking down at Jordan who crouched on the opposite side, "An answer in blood. Have you no pride for your manhood?"

"Yes," Jordan said, "and I would like for my manhood to remain firmly attached, thanks just the same," he lowered his voice to a whisper, "Her grandpa is the vice president of a motorcycle gang, do you know what they do to people?"

"Club," Peach sang as she went back to work on the truck.

"That's right, " Jordan quipped, "They club people."

"No, you jack ass," Peach laughed, "It's a club, not a gang."

Jordan sputtered, wiping the dirt from his clothing as he stood.

"Papaw Top Hat and Gator are... well, _were_ law partners," Peach said, eyeing Jordan with all his darkly themed tattoos, "Not everyone fits stereotypes. You should know, _pussy_."

"Hey," Jordan started to protest, pausing to stare as Naaco slipped in through the open rear bay.

The small Elite hunkered his shoulders and hung back, managing to look like he both did and didn't want to be noticed at the same time. In his arms he held a battered cigar box and something long wrapped in cloth cradled against his chest. His big yellow eyes flitted around the hangar as several Elites glanced up from their work.

"Amy said," Naaco began in a small, soft voice, "I might find what I need here." He looked down at his big feet and toed the dirt floor. He wasn't comfortable making requests which had nothing to do with his assigned duties, or with the warriors staring at him.

"Sure," Peach said, setting the pry bar on a tool cowel draped across the truck's hood and wiping her hands on her thighs, "What'cha got, little man?"

Naaco stepped forward and, tucking the long wrapped item under an arm, emptied the contents of the box on a clear corner of work bench.

Twisted and broken cutlery, smashed projectile ammunition casings, small clothing adornments, corroded human coins, bits of colored glass, and several pebbles and rocks of various hues clattered out and into a small pile.

"I wish to render these," he said.

Peach picked through the collection, "Render... You mean, like, _melt_ them?"

"Yes," Naaco confirmed, "I require the metals to be made malleable."

Peach smiled, her whole face lighting up, causing the pocked scars across her cheeks to crease.

He had pronounced _malleable_ about how well one would expect.

"Okay," she said, taking the box and sweeping the little pile of junk back into it, "Let's see what we can do." With that, she took Naaco's hand and began leading him across the forge.

As she went by, Peach glanced up at Eeth and threw the Elite soldier a sly wink, saying off handedly, "By the way, he's right, I am pretty easy."

Eeth felt the color drain from his face as his eyes went wide.

"What the hell?" Jordan whined, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"To talk to," Peach added, giving Kurt a scowl and Eeth a sweet smile as she floated past with Naaco in tow.

* * *

"I am not certain...no, no. What I mean is, that is to say I..." Torsch grumbled and snorted to himself, shaking his head as he stared beyond his own dim reflection in the window of his upstairs quarters. He had paced the floor of his small room for what felt hours, intent on alighting to the chapel as soon as the meeting broke.

Kote's admonition had troubled him, more so than he felt it should, and the idea that the fault was his would not quit nagging at his conscience. 'Korid turned from the window and again slogged his feet back across the room, "Amy I wish to..." he sighed in irritation.

Why was finding the right words so difficult?

Crossing back the length of the room he peeped through the curtains and saw a crowd exiting the chapel, people pausing to shake hands with Gator and the priest. Resigned to his monumental ineptitude, and hoping the right words would soon make themselves known to him,Torsch made his way from his room and down stairs. By the time he had exited the main house the crowd had all but dissipated across the courtyard, the human civilians going back about their lives in the late evening shade.

Amy and Gillery stood before the chapel's shallow porch embroiled in casual conversation. Amy smiled at the jovial human male and Torsch felt the heat of jealousy tighten his chest as he made his way toward them.

"Sergeant Starr," 'Korid heard himself growl, anger leaking into his voice.

She turned, her brows knitted as she looked him over, "Yes, Major 'Korid?"

"I require a word with you," he said, forcing the words out as calmly as his elevated blood pressure would allow.

Amy and Gill exchanged looks.

"In private, if you please, _Captain Gillery_," 'Korid snarled in spite of himself, leveling the man with a glare.

Amy shot Torsch a warning look and Gill's eyebrows climbed his forehead. But, Gill simply shrugged and raised his hands as if in surrender, "I should get going anyway, Aims," he said, hooking a thumb toward the end of the complex, "It's a long drive back and my guys are probably wondering where I'm at." He offered her his hand, "Thanks for dinner, and letting me crash your party," he nodded toward the chapel then gave her a wink, "And for not shooting me."

"I'll admit I had to restrain myself," she said smartly with a smile.

He chuckled and shook his head, then turned and began down the darkening courtyard toward the battered truck he would take back to the front line.

Amy watched after him, then frowned, turning to Torsch and crossing her arms, "What do _you_ want?" she asked.

His mandibles were drawn into hard lines, eyes narrowed, the little muscle in his lower jaw flexing, nostril slits flared as he watched Gill amble away.

"I do not trust him," he said in a low voice.

"What?" Amy said in exasperation. "He's on our side, _'Korid_," she snapped, "He came all this way with Field Master 'Caaln to bring us reinforcements. I think if there's reason not to trust him, 'Caaln would have figured it out before now."

It had been an unexpectedly pleasant evening and here was Stealth Major Dick-weed ruining it. What was his problem with Gill? Okay, the guy had been a tad short of professional at first but he got points for having a sense of humor. He was easy to talk to, and he had defended her without a second thought. They had laughed and talked long after dinner and until the meeting where Gill had joined in and participated in helping her to quell the concerns and answer the questions of the civilians. He was a nice human being and here was Torsch 'Korid...

"Oh. My. God," Amy said, her eyes studying Torsch as he glowered after Gill's retreating silhouette.

The Elite looked at her, perturbed puzzlement on his face.

"You're jealous," she said in open disbelief.

Torsch drew himself up and snorted, "I most certainly am not."

"Yes, you _most certainly_ are," she said in a loud, mocking voice, propping her hands on her hips.

Gator walked by, casting the duo a disconcerted frown. Amy gave the biker a reassuring nod then grabbed Torsch by his armored forearm and pulled him into the alcove between the chapel and a dormatory and out of the way of prying eyes and ears.

"What is wrong with you?" she asked irritably, the way a female might scold an embarrassingly ill behaved youngling.

'Korid clenched his mandibles, feeling his hearts pounding in his chest, "I simply wish to express my concern for your welfare."

"_My welfare_?" she almost yelled. Amy was pretty certain her blood pressure was in the red zone. He was managing to be both a monumental jerk _and_ make it sound like he was doing her a favor.

"Yes," he insisted, feeling the direction of this conversation going awry, "This Marcus Gillery does not appear truthful in his intentions."

She sighed angrily, her mouth a thin line.

"He smiles too much," Torsch tried, garnering from Amy a shake of the head, "And... and he is not a soldier and is expressing far too great an interest in affairs which he has no cause. This suggests to me that he is disingenuous. I do not expect you to understand but I believe he could have an ulterior motive for spending so much time with you. I do not know what that might be but I do not trust him and I believe you should not either."

"You know," Starr finally said with a casual air, "When I was in school, I read that reptiles could breathe through their ass holes."

'Korid blinked.

"But, I didn't know they could talk through them, too."

"Amy..." he growled.

"No," she snapped, wagging a finger at him and taking a step forward, "You're jealous, Torsch 'Korid."

He shook his head vehemently, "No, I am simply..."

"You _are_ and you know what? Good. I don't know what I did wrong, check that: I didn't do _anything_ wrong, other than let what Kote told me about you taking a grenade for Daniel all those years ago and that bull shit about how you were too shy to talk about your medal and how thinking you were this great humble soldier made me fall in _love_ with you..."

'Korid startled, there were far too many bits of information in that sentence to process all at once, but she went on, hands balled into fists and trembling with rage, "And, oh, you were all too happy to use me as your little _fuck sponge_ until you had worked out your issues with Coh's death. Fine. Great. I accept you didn't give a _damn_ about me and that's why you walked away," she drew a breath and led off with a sneer, "_I don't expect you to understand_, but don't you think for one second that just because you fucked me a few times that gives you a right to tell me who I should and shouldn't spend time with and try to play it off like your concerned because what you are is _jealous_."

His mandibles moved, but nothing came out and before he could get a hold on anything to say Amy turned on her heel and stormed off.

* * *

**New Saint Etienne; Governor's Mansion**

Azrael Ashmund swirled the scotch around in his glass and watched the sixty year, triple distilled, light amber perfection cling ever so weakly to the crystal glass. Through the open French doors the sounds of the ocean floated in on a breeze and the failing light of a sunset draped in clouds powdered the room with its diffused brilliance.

"Sonja," he said, looking up to the woman seated across his desk. A painfully thin creature with pale, almost sallow skin bespeaking her half-black, gypsy-creole heritage looked back. Although Sonja was a more competent commander than her predecessor, Ashmund still saw her as bayou trash. But, she did seemed to understand disappointment would not be tolerated, and she got the job done, in more than one arena of his life, at least... up until _this_ moment.

"Tell me you have heard from him," Ashmund said as he lazily unholstered his pistol and set casually it on the top of the desk before taking a drink from his glass.

Across from him, Sonja didn't so much as gaze at the weapon, shifting instead to lounge in her chair, draping her willowy legs across one of its arms.

She laced her fingers behind her head and stared up at the vaulted ceiling and offered no answer.

Azrael smirked and drained the last of his scotch, pausing to savor the taste and let the after effects tickle his tongue before speaking, "Need I remind you how I do so dislike disappointments?"

Sonja sighed, lolling her head to look at him, "What's to disappoint?" She purred. "You have subdued the populous. Executions have set the record straight on who's in charge," she sat up languidly, "Prisoners are working on rebuilding the city to your liking. Your man infiltrated our neighbors and as an unexpected perk sent someone back with astounding intel and we have been listening in for weeks now on outside plans to move against you. Pete and Connor have your loyalists outfitted and as we speak the city is being fortified to thwart the coming little coup," she stood and moved around the desk like liquid, "They don't suspect him. No, it is _better _than that, they believe he is one of them and by all accounts their chatter tells me he is in position to finish what those _incompetents_ obviously didn't," she stopped, perching a hip against the desk. She was close enough he could smell the gamy, unwashed scent of her.

Sonja combed her bony fingers through Ashmund's hair and he steeled himself against flinching from her touch, "You need to be patient," she said in a timbre which was supposed to have been seductive, "and you needn't be disappointed, because I am seeing to your _every_ need."

Rising slowly from his seat Azrael took a moment to stand between her knees and tower over her.

He struck like a viper, grabbing her wrist roughly with one hand and striking her hard across the mouth with the other. The blow echoed in the cavernous room and sent her head snapping to one side, a trail of spittle and blood slinging across the floor.

"YOU DO NOT TELL ME WHAT I NEED," he thundered.

He could feel her trembling as she sat there, the tremors moving across her body and up to reverberate in the arm he still held in an iron grip as she struggled to draw air.

Slowly, she turned to look at him, blood leaking from a split on her full bottom lip. He grabbed a fist full of her wiry black hair and she smiled, her teeth painted orange.

"Oh, I know _exactly_ what _you_ need," Sonja whispered, a thin hand cupping his crotch.

Ashmund sucked in a breath and sneered. When he mashed his mouth against hers there was the intoxicating flavor of mingling blood and alcohol.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

It was a good drive from the Saint Vincent's complex to the front along the perimeter road. Gill was taking his time, as if enjoying the sights while he pretended to be headed somewhere, giving the suns time to slide below the horizon. Along the way he had waved to several passing patrol vehicles in the dusk. Thus far, he had counted the gap between them: seventy-three seconds at the shortest and a hundred and ten at the longest between the disappearance of tail lights ahead of him and the appearance of head lights in his rearview. He decided to strike near the middle of the least, giving the last retreating vehicle, a Ghost occupied by a lone Sangheili, to the count of thirty, though it disappeared round a bend at twenty-five, before cutting his own headlights and diving off the dusty roadway. He gunned the small truck, checking for the tell-tale signs he had been spotted off-roading by a patrol. The truck lurched and jostled, throwing him about as the nose bobbed and ducked over a slight rise. He killed the engine, coasting to a stop through the remainder of his count. He sat for a few moments in the dark, listening and waiting. When discovery of his venture was not forthcoming he stepped from the truck and pocketed the keys, cloaking himself in active camouflage and beating a wide, brisk path back toward the complex.

As he walked, Gill checked the magazine of the Department of Corrections issue Magnum he had appropriated with the uniform bearing _M. Gillery_ stitched across the left breast.

He had only guessed that the M was for Marcus.

Gillery worked. When the lights had gone out and then emergency protocols had failed in the pre-transport unit, he and fifteen others waiting to take the long ride on a prison ship had meted out a little payback on the guards before making their escape. M. Gillery was a grade-A hard-ass. Captain of the Cell Extraction and Restraint Team. The right height. The right build. And right there when it all went down. At least Gilbert was fortunate enough to be afforded a descent cover and still be called by something close to his actual name.

He had hoped to kick off this long overdue hit by luring that bitch, Amy Starr, from the complex, and get her all to himself right and proper and put a bullet in her head. But, Stealth Major 'Korid had shown up and put an end to that plan. Gill was pissed about that, he had put an awful lot of effort into getting a way out of this bad joke and being rid of one of this place's command staff in one swoop.

Instead, he had to count himself damned lucky. Thanks to some quick thinking, Tom Beauchaine, the bumbling idiot, hadn't ruined everything. Gill had known the moment he had seen the man strutting across the dining room he had been made. Wasn't that just his kind of luck? Spending all this time schmoozing his way in, finding out how they were communicating, getting friendly with the natives, ferretting out what had really happened to Hagart and his crew, and then Gill had managed to charm his way onto this mission only to be outed by a moron once he got here.

No way.

He and Tom had done too much time together in North City Lockup to let it go on a hope. So, Gill had put the fear of God in Tom about opening his mouth, of that he was sure. A man didn't become Ashmund's go-to for contract killings and not be able to scare the skin off of ordinary, everyday, garden variety felons.

Beauchaine was one of Hagart's followers, not to be trusted anyhow, but he had a few skeletons hanging around. So, Gill had put it to him. He told Tom that if he so much as breathed a word and started trouble Gill would let the right people know that Tom had done time for touching little girls. He hadn't. Thomas Beauchaine was no Chester, he had done time for stealing cars, running guns, and trafficking stolen weapons for the cause. But, the truth was pretty fluid these days, and by the time Gill got done putting bugs in the right people's ears Tom would have found himself a marked man.

Like a good boy, Beauchaine had kept his mouth shut long enough for Gill to get the lay of the land and his fill of intel.

Amy Starr had sure filled his ears. Damn, that woman could talk. She was a little scrawny for his tastes, and definitely too mouthy, but, God, what a mouth. Gill could just imagine those full, luscious lips wrapped around his...

He cursed. He didn't have time to think about that.

Later. He would definitely think about that later.

He was just glad he had laid it on thick, played his cards right. And, damned if it didn't work like a charm. After dinner when the refactory had cleared out and it was just the two of them, Starr had gone on and on about the plan to attack the city. Gill hadn't expected to get _all_ the details until tomorrow, when Sonja would be listening in. But, damn, all the better. Now he could off the old man and the other two, a little behind the original schedule, but still so as to get them tucked out of the way and no longer a threat to rally the displaced. Then he could be on his merry way, maybe even back to New Saint E by midnight.

Nice and tidy.

Gill took his time on his way back toward Saint Vincent's, checking and re-checking the ammo and explosive charges concealed about his person. As he walked, he slipped a bulbous black tube from his pocket, quietly unholstering his side arm and winding the sound and flash cancelling device onto the barrel. He quietly popped the snap on the bottom of the custom purpose holster at his hip and refitted the weapon securely in it.

His mind ran through and made last minute modifications to a mission he had executed three dozen times before. It wasn't like he hadn't had plenty of time to think about it on the ride in. It was only a matter now of working what he had found out in such a short time on site.

The suns had set completely and the sky was crawling with an impressive display of stars when he slipped unseen into the complex and crept close to the infirmary. A bright, silver-blue gibbous moon illuminated the narrow path before him which was nothing more than a sliver of trail beat down by local critters.

Corporal Allison Winnefrid and a lanky male soldier Gill had never been introduced to were posted at the front door of the infirmary. They were passing their guard duty with a card game illuminated by the light of a personal LEDs clipped to chest rigs. Moving on, and sticking to the deep shadows, Gill checked the target area undetected and watched for a few moments as Winnefrid hummed to herself, a booted foot patting out a rhythm as she decided on her next move. Both soldiers were blissfully unaware they were being watched.

Satisfied, Gill slunk toward the back of the infirmary.

He checked the windows as he went, seeing the atrium empty and the ward dark. Assured of himself, he slipped around the building and in through a back door, creeping along as he traversed in almost complete invisibly down the dark hall. A little nun was sitting at a half-moon desk just to the right of the back door into the ward. Hagart Deléon was tucked into a cot, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of sleep. Gill stood there for a few moments, steadying his breathing. This was his job, and he was damn good at it. Life without parole. That's what he had gotten. It could have been the needle, but he had given up Donnovan Jones in exchange for his own life. Good ol' Donny. Crazy ass Donny. A third cousin twice removed on his mother's drug smuggling side, or some bull shit like that. Whatever, Donny was the perfect scapegoat.

Of course, only Gill had known neither of them would see the inside of a prison tug. His services were far to valuable, and entirely necessary now that it seemed even Ashmund couldn't get his own mess cleaned up without outside help. Azrael was going to be tickled pink when he heard how ironic... no, _serendipitous _this had all turned out to be.

On cat-feet, Gill stepped into the ward silently and unseen and, in one swift movement, grabbed Sister Mary Rachel around the shoulders, clamping a hand over her mouth and twisting her head and upper body in opposite directions. There was a brief, muffled cry of surprise and the crunch of her neck snapping. Gill gently lowered her head and shoulders to the desktop, arranging her as if she had simply fallen asleep there.

He looked up.

Nothing stirred.

Stepping across the ward in the dark, reflexively dropping to a crouch, he drew his silenced pistol and rose just long enough to put two rounds into the sleeping Hagart's chest. The man's eyes flew open and he gasped, making a weak wheezing sound before Gill pumped a third round into his forehead and Deléon fell back limp to bleed against the bed, his head haloed in floating pillow fibers.

Back out in the crisp night air, Gill cut a wide path toward the smooth outline of a Spirit troop bay blackening the crest of a hill a hundred yards distant. He paused mid way to the objective and knelt in the dirt, pulling a small explosive charge from the pack concealed in his belt. It was a tiny device, no bigger than a slip of gum but packing nearly the full punch of an M127B claymore. He crouched and pushed it into the dirt, blast face facing in, then retrieved a trip-wire from a pocket and laid it while he scurried across the most likely avenue of advancement from the complex. Gill shoved another flat micro-stick of anti-personnel explosive into the sand. He then carefully attached the trip wire to both devices, buying himself some time, just in case, before creeping on.

He gave the jail a wide berth as he jogged past. He would have preferred to have higher ground, but the lay of the land didn't allow it. Instead, Gill took to the edge of an overgrown vineyard on the far side of the impromptu jail, taking a knee as he began slipping the rifle from his back. He checked the magazine then went about threading a custom-made suppressor onto the barrel. Settling into the pungent peat, he took up a prone firing position, adjusting the zoom on the optic... and waited.

Insects chirped. A night bird cawed and the vines rustled somewhere in the distance.

_Come on, big boy,_ Gill thought, _You've got to come out some time._

He waited and willed his heart rate and breathing into a synchronized rhythm. Inhale on a beat, pause, exhale on a beat, pause, and on and on as the minutes ticked past.

The massive Dak 'Varlemai eventually emerged, stepping from the troop bay-come jail and rolling his wide shoulders, reaching to stretch the tree trunks he called arms with a yawn. Still, Gill waited, watching the Elite work his muscles as he began to stroll around the perimeter of his keep. He disappeared for a few moments around the front then emerged round the opposite end.

Stopping just shy of Gill's sights, Dak crouched and plucked a flowering weed from the ground, bringing it to his broad, thick snout for a sniff.

_"You've got to be fucking kidding me,"_ Gill mumbled.

At that, the Elite snapped upright, gaze jerking directly toward Gill as a huge alien hand discarded the flower and reached for the rifle clasped to his thigh.

_Shit,_ Gill thought, realizing he had let himself forget just how good their hearing was.

As 'Varlemai sniffed the air and shifted his feet Gill clicked the zoom and took the shot, watching as the Elite's head snapped back and blood painted a shiny swatch across the hull as the round sang a dull _thunk._ The big alien struggled to maintain his footing, body listing to one side as he clasped a hand to his head and pulled his rifle. Gill gave him two more center mass. With a _thunk-thunk_ the rounds met their marks and sprays of gore hit the troop bay.

The rifle slipped from the Elite's hand and the huge creature crumple face down in the dirt.

Gill sprang to his feet, shouldering the rifle as he stood and dashed for the troop bay. He approached with impatient caution, pulling his side arm, putting two rounds into the back of 'Varlemai's head for good measure before exchanging the nearly spent mag for a fresh one and slipping inside.

It was so very purple. Like a pimp on acid had decorated the place.

Charlie and Lance occupied the same cell, awake and looking around with curious expressions. Jones was standing near the humming energy barrier which barred his cell, craning his neck and squinting into the darkness.

Gill walked directly to the control panel, eyes scanning as he approached. Strange symbols and weird icons twinkled back.

_Screw this,_ he thought, and mashed all of them at once with his palm.

The barriers fizzled into nothing and Charlie and Lance startled, stepping back.

"Time to die, gents," Gill said, his voice coming from seemingly nowhere and cutting through the dark as he fired a round into each of them.

Donnovan Jones screamed like a little girl and Gill turned to see the man fall flat on his ass at the door. He had tried to run, but Dak 'Varlemai barred the exit, one giant shoulder leaned against the casing as he bled profusely from the face; a huge, red, asymmetrical and ornate assassin's sword alive in his hand.

Throwing his arms over his head, Jones fell back and curled into a sniveling ball, which the Elite General took one long step over, snarling hate.

"Oh, _fuck you,"_ Gill hissed, emptying his handgun into the Sangheili's upper body. Dak jerked under the barrage, chunks of flesh and ribbons of blood flying from his neck as he stepped forward, his feet slipping from beneath him. His sword cut the air in an ark as he fell like so much dead weight against the deck. Gill wasn't fast enough. He jumped to avoid the blade but the long lower edge grazed his leg, overloading the cloaking device's energy field and collapsing it around him as the hem of his pant's leg, part of his boot, and a layer of flesh was flayed off.

_"Mother fucker!"_ Gill said through clenched teeth.

Donnovan looked up, tears running down his face, trembling almost uncontrollably. He had peed himself, again.

"Gilbert?" he sniveled.

From outside at the complex there was a shout.

"Gotta' go," Gill sang, hobbling around the downed Elite and disappearing out the door.

Suddenly realizing his chance, Jones flipped over like a crab and crawled to Dak. He swiped the ignition switch to the collars from the Elite's body then managed to stand on wobbly legs and give chase.

"Gilbert!" Jones cried as he hit the sand.

Shouting voices grew louder as people from the complex came to investigate the scream which had probably woken the damned dead.

Gill's leg was on fire, but he blocked it out as he sprinted gimpily for his truck through the gently rolling landscape. He topped a small rise and hit the downward angle, and promptly tripped over his feet. Gill landed hard in the dirt and weeds at the driver's door muttering a string of curses. He scrambled up in time to hear voices as people charged from the complex, and he limped up the rise just as someone snagged the trip-wire.

The duel explosions sent dirt and debris flying toward one another. There were screams and howels as a few of his pursuers were caught in the crossfire of needle-fine shrapnel. Others dove for cover, a few stumbled but continued the chase.

Donnovan Jones let out a yelp as he charged past and piled into the bed of the bed of the truck. Gilbert felt a jolt of pride and he hobbled back and climbed in behind the wheel, firing up the engine. As he spun the truck around and it fishtailed over the rise he grabbed a couple of grenades from the center console and, pulling the pins with his teeth, lobbed them through the open window.

* * *

"Say I agree," Kote said, angling the projected image of New Saint Etienne idly with his fingertips, "purely for the sake of argument, that the man who betrayed his soldiers and condemned us to this planet indeed deserves exile, what of it?"

Daniel sighed and rubbed at his forehead. Why could he not get 'Hakkamr to understand?

_'The laws of our fathers demand it_,' he finally scribbled across the bottom of a sheet of paper, beneath his half of the former of their argument.

Kote glanced at the note and snorted disinterest. Ever since the death of Penny he had become most disagreeable. "And? Here you are," Kote gestured to Daniel, "I do not see you leaving."

Daniel frowned and scratched at a lower mandible.

"That is because of _her_," 'Hakkamr rumbled.

Reflexively, Daniel cast a glance at the hall outside the dining room and toward a room which held a sleeping Lucinda in its depths.

He nodded somberly. He could never deny that the idea of taking his well deserved leave of this place and assuming exile was too painful to bear because of the mere though of being separated from her.

_'I..._' but that was as far as he got, stopping to tap the pen's writing end against the paper thoughtfully.

"_Sicera 'Berovai_ betrayed us," Kote said simply.

Daniel looked at him, eyes searching as 'Hakkamr propped his elbows against the table top and folded his arms, light from the cartographer casting shadows on his face, "He set in motion sabatage against his own ships which condemned us to remain here."

Daniel nodded slowly though he did not understand what the other man was getting at.

"And then, to add to his shame, he willfully surrendered to the enemy." Kote made to glance at Daniel's notes, leafing through to other pages but not really looking at them, "Yet, you claim that man is dead."

_'Yes,'_ Daniel mouthed and Kote went on, "He died to save the life of a girl who showed him mercy, mercy which we can both agree he did _not_ deserve."

Daniel swallowed.

"Then, tell me," Kote said, leaning across the table and fixing his eyes on Daniel's, "If you are no longer Sicera 'Berovai, who are you to serve his sentence?"

Daniel looked down at his notes and though his eyes searched he was not seeing the words.

Across the house a door opened. Still consumed with his thoughts, Daniel hardly processed what happened next. There was the _thump, thump, thump_ of heavy, running footsteps and then the room exploded in a crash as Torsch 'Korid came across the table, overturning it as he leapt with bared claws and teeth at his second-in-command. Papers, pens, and pencils were sent flying; the communications node and sundry items crashed to the floor; and the mapping transmitter cast it's display in a wild strobe of color as it rolled across the room. 'Korid shoved 'Hakkamr from his seat and up against the far wall, the surface trembling and framed pictures jumping to the floor, their glass breaking as plaster rained down and was smashed to dust under foot.

Torsch wrestled with a shocked Kote and the two men snarled and snapped at one another. 'Korid's claws tore at the paint on the other man's armored cowel as he fought to get his hands around 'Hakkamr's throat.

"What is...the meaning of this," Kote snarled, trying to deflect 'Korid's attempt at effecting a hold.

In frustration, Torsch grabbed Kote by the assault harness with a growl, spittle slinging from between bared fangs as he lifted 'Hakkamr's shoulders from the wall by his chest plate and slammed the man back again, jarring the wall and causing the plaster face to break out in cracks which crawled out from the crater now framing the junior Stealth Major's back.

Daniel recognized the accent of 'Korid's native colony world, for the first time in what had to be over fifty years, bleeding through Torsch's enraged speech, _"You'll not survive dishonoring me!"_

Knowing 'Korid could make good on that threat, Daniel jumped into the fray, wedging himself between the two men. He mashed Kote against the ravaged wall and grappled with 'Korid until he could work a foot up and, planting it against the other man's chest, shoved him back. Torsch's claws ripped into flesh and tore Daniel's clothing as he was wrenched away and thrown back.

His heels caught the overturned table and he went down, tumbling out into the atrium, tucking, catching himself in a roll and springing up into a fighting stance hissing all manner of obscenities.

Lucinda and Grand-mama Larouche emerged from down the hall in their night clothes. The elderly woman wrapped an arm across Deléon's shoulders in a matronly and protective gesture and the girl clasped her hands to her mouth as she was pulled out of 'Korid's path.

He vaulted forward with a bellow, teeth flashing. Daniel barked and squared off to him, bringing Torsch up short. Daniel placed his hand against 'Korid's chest and shoved him back a step just to be certain.

"This does not concerned _you,"_ 'Korid seethed.

As adrenaline poured through him, Torsch's eyes were little more than pools of black ringed in a thin outline of lavender and green. All across his exposed hide scoots were knotted, causing the bright freckled scales to stands out in a parody of vestigial quills.

Traipsing down from the second floor, Naaco, Yipip, and Amy emerged at the base of the stairs. The Grunt rubbed his beady eyes while Naaco squinted sleepily and Amy shoved her way between them. Jesh 'Mortum and Alexander Lovelace, Gator, Top Hat, and Foxy Lady soon emerged from the third floor to stare as 'Korid fumed and raged and pawned the floor like an angry bull, armored feet tearing at the hardwoods.

_"You had no right to speak to her of my life,"_ Torsch spat at Kote.

A sense of being unnecessarily wronged had only built as he had stewed for hours over his foolishness and folly, and how utterly stupid he knew he had sounded confronting Amy. Then, seeing Kote upon walking through the door had left Torsch overcome with rage at the knowledge of what the other man had divulged to her. It was easier to focus his anger on someone else, to invoke a righteous indignation at the breaking of a social taboo than blame himself.

"Do not fault _me_," Kote jeered, even as Daniel planted the stub of an arm against his chest to hold him back.

The junior Stealth Major snorted and rolled his shoulders, flinging off Daniel's restraint. 'Hakkamr straightened and brushed the dirt form his armor, "If you would only move your ego aside, _Major 'Korid_, you would see I did you the favor cowardice prevented you from doing for yourself."

"_Mind your words_," Torsch growled, "Grief will only excuse your insolence for so long. _Do not_ test the limits of my patience."

"_You _mind them," Kote snarled, taking a threatening step forward into the stump of Daniel's arm, jabbing a finger toward his file leader, "And save your patience for someone who gives a damn for it. I will say the words if you require hearing them: You are a _coward_, Torsch 'Korid."

With a growl Torsch drew the hilt from his hip and with a crackling snap the blue of an energy sword ignited in his fist. Daniel stepped back, watching as Kote drew his own military issue weapon and lighted the blade.

Amy stood motionless in the door way, smelling the tinge of burnt ozone and realizing they were seriously going to duel it out right there... _in the house._

"Daniel?" she pleaded.

He looked back and as he shook his head helplessly an explosion rocked from far across the complex.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

Daniel took long, determined strides, crossing the dining room and the atrium as he unsheathed the machete from its holster on his partial arm. He nearly bowled right over Amy as he plowed through the house, twisting his neck to snarl briefly toward Grand-mama. The elderly woman heeded the look on his face and was sent fleeing with Lucinda further down the hall. Naaco and Yipip similarly backed several steps up the stairs in retreat as the scarred Elite barged past and stalked from the house with Kote and Torsch directly behind him.

Amy followed, rushing into a courtyard where there were sleepy-eyed and nervous people emerging from buildings in the dead of night to look around curiously. Heads turned and eyes followed the three Elites who were traversing down the courtyard at a lope.

Three more explosions sounded far out at the edge of the complex in rapid succession, rattling windows, their flashes briefly lighting the darkness beyond the jail in their wake. A few people shouted in surprise and others huddled. The ground trembled lightly beneath Amy's feet. Ahead, 'Korid and 'Hakkamr extinguished their blades, what had happened between them moments before already forgotten as they picked up their pace to a run behind Daniel.

'Mortum could be heard barking, already taking command of soldiers and warriors who were rushing from their dorms in various states of dress and armor.

Starr faltered to a stop and whirled, finding Lovelace and the bikers close enough to nearly trip over her, "Get these people back inside," she said to none of them in particular, hopping back to keep from being creamed by the tank-like Lovelace and eyeing the buildings as she spoke, seeing more and more civilians stepping out, emboldened to see what was going on.

There were nods from her companions and they split off without further exchange. Amy took back to her heels, shouting intermittently for people to get inside, pointing in the direction of civilians, most of whom seemed to watch in an uncomprehending daze as she ran by. A few souted questions as she darted past but Starr didn't hear them.

Amy made the end of the courtyard and hooked to the path which wound to the jail, her Elite counterparts already far ahead of her in the darkness and out of sight. Halfway to the Spirit troop bay she came across a swatch of upturned earth and two broken bodies which were little more than lumps of flesh and bone and clothing in vaguely human shapes. Nearby a blood-soaked Locket knelt with a dirty and tousled Private Trice as they were trying to help a bloodied, disoriented N'Rule to his feet.

"Locket. Cory," Amy said as she came upon them.

The young woman's eyes were large and glassy and Trice was physically shaking as the two of them looked up, N'Rule stumbling between them for footing.

"You're injured," Amy said, reaching for Locket's arm.

"It's not mine," the other woman answered, a bit too loudly. If she had been in relatively close proximity of the blast it could be hours before her hearing returned to normal. Tears spilled from her eyes as she looked back at the lifeless forms discarded at the edge of the path behind them, "Jordan's dead... and Smitty, too."

"But, you're not hurt," Starr squeeze her arm to regain her focus. This wasn't the time to grieve, grieving could come later.

Locket shook her head, blood splattered, frizzy auburn curls bouncing around her face, "No, I'm okay."

"Cory?"

"I...I'm good to go, Sarge," he said as if not entirely certain, touching a hand to his forehead and blinking at the blood on his fingertips.

N'Rule extricated himself roughly from the humans' grasps, staggering for a few steps and listing heavily from side to side. His pupils were dilated and he had a far off look about him as he shook his side-cocked head as if there were water in his ears, trying to regain his equilibrium through force of will. Exposed flesh was bleeding all across his face and neck and hands from hundreds of fine cuts and his armor was blood and dirt-splattered, singed and scuffed. N'Rule walked forward under his own power for a few steps but fell hard to his hands and knees as if uncontrollably dizzy, pointing toward the jail with a shaking hand.

With little choice but to leave Cory and Locket for the time being with the woozy Elite, Amy took off in the direction the Stealth Minor had indicated. She jogged along the narrow and worn path, lungs burning, arms and legs pumping as her heart threatened to pound out of her ribcage. She neared the troop bay and saw the dark shapes of two Elites circling the structure. She rushed inside, catching a hand on the casing to slow herself down. Amy immediately had her feet slip from beneath her, her legs peddled uselessly for a few moments against a sprawling slick of blood which covered the deck. She cursed, landing hard on her rear in the thick fluids. The sticky scents of hot tar, copper, loosed bowls, spent carbon, and singed ozone assaulted her nose.

As Amy lifted herself carefully from the floor she saw Charles Deleon, dead from a single gunshot wound to his chest. His ashen body was sprawled face-up across threshold of a cell, his eyes open and unseeing. Against the far wall of the same unit Lance Mariotti was clutching a wound to the middle of his abdomen, his body shaking uncontrollably while his lips sputtered blood.

Amy crossed to him, careful of her footing. As she knelt at his side Daniel appeared in the doorway and moved to join her.

"Oh, God," Amy groaned as she pulled Lance's hands away from his stomach to see the wound weakly pumping swells of blood. Her gaze tipped up to catch the sheen playing across Daniel's eyes in the poor lighting as the Elite took a knee at the man's other side.

"We've got to get him to the infirm..." Starr began to say, but with frightening utility of motion Daniel shifted ever so slightly on his haunches and brought the blade of his machete parallel to the deck. Before Amy could react he grabbed Lance's head in the crook of his partial arm and pulled the man's body toward himself as he forced the blade between Lance's ribs, jamming it cross-way through his upper body, slicing through heart and lungs. Lance made a horrible choking sound and his body tensed for a brief second before going lax, mouth gasping in axillary movements as blood ran from his lips and trickled across Daniel's arm.

_"Why did you do that?!"_ Starr screamed, slipping as she lunged to her feet.

Daniel only looked at her mutely, jerking the weapon from Lance's body, gore dripping from the blade as he slowly rose to tower over her.

"He was already dead," Kote rumbled, standing outside the troop bay and taking in the scene, "There was nothing to be done for him, Amy."

Hot tears of frustration burned in her eyes but refused to fall as she crossed the bay gingerly and shoved past the Stealth Major. Knowing he was right but hating it just the same she stumbled out into the night and gulped for breath.

Vehicles from the parimeter route could be seen speeding along the roads heading toward the complex. As Amy watched them numbly, a truck turned off from the pack. Its headlights fell and swept across the distance beyond an expanse of cultivated grape vines. Amy barely caught movement from the other side of a low ridge and somehow managed to pick her feet up and push herself into a run.

When she reached the stretch of vineyard, a small vignette which took advantage of the rolling terrain, she found that there were several paths already torn through the overgrowth. Still, Amy selected her footing carefully, emerging down a row of leaning and pushed-over trellises and out the other side into a swatch of grassy pastureland. Crossing the expanse, and trudging over the ridge, Starr dropped down on the other side and felt her heart tumble into her stomach.

In the wavering headlights of the approaching truck she could see that there was blood everywhere. Across the blast riddled earth, violently disjointed body parts and flesh, pieces of Covenant armor and weapons were strewn about. What was left of Phulu 'Waaren's body, his head attached to a shoulder and an arm by strings of neck sinews, lay in the middle of it all. Telam 'Regesh lay unmoving; the faint glow of his armor ending below his ribcage where his guts spilled out. His whole lower body had been blown off.

Vae 'Barcaam and Jhett 'Xdan were on their seats in the dirt, struggled to hold Eeth's arms while 'Korid held his legs down. The Stealth Minor was snarling and hissing, cursing and raging in his native language, stretched out on his back, mandibles flaring and lips curled to bared fangs in pain as Corporal Winnefrid and Peach fumbled at the chest plate of his ravaged assault harness, blood leaking from a gaping hole over his right chest. The humans and Elites were all talking at one another at once and getting no where, so Amy slid to her knees at the injured Elite's side. She shoved the women's hands away, deftly fingering the catch on the chest rig's collar and deactivating the magnetic clamps which held the armor together. It clam-shelled down the middle of his chest and Eeth snarled and bucked against the other Elite's holds, hands balled into white-knuckled fists and legs trying to kick as the women worked to pull the armor open. As soon as it was clear Amy grabbed Eeth's undersuit at the neck, breaking the zip and peeling the fabric open across his chest. Torn clean through the armor and undersuit and imbedded deep in the Stealth Minor's chest were broken shards of his own plating and tatters of bodysuit soaked in blood, all protruding around a chunk of metal mottled with a tortoise-shell pattern which gave it away as a large piece of a fragmentation grenade.

"Here," 'Korid growled, wrestling Eeth's feet into one arm and retrieving his own Covenant medkit form an armor pouch on his thigh.

He tossed Amy a neat roll of what appeared to be mesh fabric the texture of suede.

"Put it..." 'Korid said, trying to keep hold of Eeth's feet as the wounded Elite trashed with lessening vigor, "_Lay-it-across-the-wound_," he said in a rush.

Before Amy could react, Kote appeared across Eeth's supine body, pushing Peach and Allison aside and kneeling to pluck the roll from Starr's hands. He deftly walked his fingers, unwinding a length of the strange cloth before tearing it off and handing Amy the remainder of the roll. He draped the torn length over the wound to Eeth's chest and the fabric immediately began a complex chemical reaction. It changed color and density and texture as it secured itself across the seeping wound and protruding shrapnel, becoming the leathery bandage Amy recognized.

"The fragments can be extracted later," Kote said, jumping to his feet and scurrying off to join the Elites who had disembarked the truck and were sniffing about with Daniel.

Already Eeth's breathing was changing from shallow gasps to more controlled, but still pained breaths. He stopped struggling, his eyes casting about as if he were just coming-to. Vae and Jhett let go of his arms and as they stood Peach rushed in and flopped to the ground, wrapping her arms around the Elite's neck.

"What happened to him?" Amy asked, pushing up on wobbly legs as Eeth looked around, disoriented and embarrassed.

"Battle Rage," 'Korid said, collecting his feet, "A blinding psychological response to overwhelming sensory information. He was wounded, but his mind was processing the pain as a continued combat threat and not an injury. He was trying to attack everyone, we had to wrestle him to the ground for all of our safety." Torsch leaned down and patted the side of Eeth's face, giving him a wan smile, "It happens to the best of us, _o'ani_."

With that, 'Korid turned and barked to the other Elites who had fanned out in a protective circle, weapons aimed out into the darkness. Daniel moved among them but was clearly not one with them. Torsch waved the troops in and they began a clipped discussion in their native language while Daniel walked a wide circle, not taking part.

The others set Eeth into the truck bed and Amy flashed the headlights and honked the horn, calling over another vehicle from the road as it came into view.

She met the topless sport utility as it bounced across the landscape, and swung herself into the back before it had come to a complete stop, giving the driver directions to where they could pick up the others.

When they pulled to a stop, Locket and Private Trice were checking their injuries in the ghostly purple running lights of the troop bay. N'Rule was propped up against the vessel's side, still shaking his head and working his mandibles. Amy flipped a few retaining latches and another soldier helped her drag the small rear seat from the back of the Jeep. As she began spewing instructions to get the wounded into the truck, her words were cut off by a slew of gunfire from the inner complex.

Later reports would reveal that the eruption had been the result of several civilians trying to rush the in-coming perimeter patrol units and commandeer their vehicles. A scuffle had ensued and was brought to an end when one of the civilians had drawn a weapon and fired on a human soldier, putting a fatal bullet into her neck. That had brought a rush of action and return fire from human soldiers and Elites alike.

Hearing the sounds of shots being fired, Amy ran on rubbery legs back toward the courtyard.

She reached the bend and a din of voices greeted her as she picked her way through a collection of haphazardly parked patrol vehicles. Daniel caught up to her, similarly winding through the trucks and SUVs and pausing at her side to take in the scene which greeted them.

A mass of civilians tired of waiting and wanting and of being ordered around had finally collided with exhausted human soldiers and members law enforcement. Unwilling to go into the uncertainty of the night but too stubborn to return indoors, most of the civilians crowded into the one place they had left to go. Added to that mix was an overwhelming number of Sangheili warriors itching for a fight. And so, the fragile bubble of civility they had all been living under had finally burst.

Outrage from the civilians had deteriorated into outright pandemonium. The courtyard was little more that a swarming mass of bodies. It was turmoil, and human soldiers and Sangheili warriors were in machine mode, working in broken concert, trying to disperse the civilians who were all but taking over.

Their anger was an infectious thing, feeding on itself, driving them into an uncontrollable frenzy of shouting questions and screaming accusations, of shoving back against their keepers in frustration.

Personnel which had come in from the perimeter road had only added to the increased chaos. With two civilians now laying dead and full of bullet holes and covered in scorch marks it had all the earmarks of turning into a full scale riot. The people were abjectly refusing to be placated and the courtyard was a mass of incoherent shouting and jostling bodies.

The people had assigned blame as they saw it and thwarted the soldiers struggle to regain control. Amy stood there frozen as she looked at a percolating sea of shoving and shouldering, and pointing and shouting over one anther in many languages.

Amy startled and her ears rang as someone close by pulled a pistol and cracked a few wild shots into the air. The chaotic mass shifted and flinched, the gathering accordioning together in knots as hell seemed to opened up from every direction.

And there was Lucinda.

The girl emerge at the top of the rise across the length of the courtyard from the back door of the main house clad in her night gown. She screamed, tugging and escaping from Grand-mama's grasp at the edge of the porch and dropping down at the fringe of the angry throng of people, Naaco diving in after her.

Amy let out a scream of her own, her voice drown out by the shouts and yells around her as she plowed headlong into the fray, wondering what Lucinda could possibly have been thinking.

Starr tried to weave and shove her way through but watched helplessly, mired in a pit of overt and senseless brawling, unable to claw her way through the mess quickly enough as Lucinda similarly dodging through the crowd.

Then, a man snatched the girl roughly by her upper arms and hauled her from her feet.

Deléon squealed and pulled against this irate stranger as he shook her like a rag doll, snapping her head back and forth. When he stopped long enough to scream in her face, Amy saw that Lucinda understood just how much danger she was in.

Starr began throwing elbows and was still unsuccessful in the attempt to force her way through the angry tangle of arms and shoving bodies.

She looked at Daniel and opened her mouth...

But, if she said anything to him, he did not hear it. Though his eyes were locked on the scene unfolding before him, the present had cracked and hate and vengeance and regret had reached through the shattered pieces of time to grab hold of him.

Daniel's mind was millions of light-years and a lifetime away...

* * *

"While this Council appreciates your desire to expand the empire, are you not set to deploy at the end of this monthly cycle?"

The question had come from Senior Councilor Cesshier 'Berov, an aged and bent Sangheili who held the majority vote for the State's High Council.

Sicera 'Berovai silently seethed, none too please to be receiving a lecture from this old fool. As he stood before the quorum it took all the young kaidon's composure not to clench his fists. They did not trust his decisions, after nearly two years of rulership.

And, this was not the first time they had come together to nullify his ambition.

"You took as your Mistress, Keeri, of the House of Pish," the councilor went on, a smile crinkling one side of his face, "And while there is not a man breathing who would begrudge you such a... _lithe_ young woman, setting her as the Mistress of Berov, to act as _you_ in your absence has given this council pause. Especially since it is the House of her upbringing you now wish to wage war against. Have you any idea how that..."

"I am not doing this _for her_," Sicera sneered.

"...looks," the councilor finished, eyes narrowing at being interrupted. "Nonetheless," he went on, "You would call this State to arms then leave, placing us under the orders of a woman who hails from the very place you wish to overthrow. We will not have it. Will _not_. With all respect due your position, Kaidon, your orders are herby voided."

"My mother..." Sicera hissed.

"Your mother is no longer a citizen of Berov. You saw to that yourself after your confirmation when you let her go back to her husband. And even if she _were,_ she never had a say in this council. Your orders are _voided _and you are dismissed, _Highness_."

Sicera managed to choke back his rage but refused to dip his head in respect as he turned and exited the council chamber. He began back to the mansion he called home and his anger built upon itself, turning from mere annoyance at being dismissed to rage at being beholden to a council of cowards. Cesshier would not voice his reservations at having Sicera remain ruler of Berov, Sicera had taken down too many assassins already for that.

No, instead the Senior Councilor would hold quorum and undermine Sicera's power.

When the kaidon brushed past the honor guard of cadets stationed at the mansion's main entry he slammed the carved, heavy doors behind him, the echo rolling down the wide hall.

And there she was, Keeri, stepping from an adjoining room and taking careful steps toward him, knotting the front of her dress in her small, delicate hands, a look of fear and worry on her beautiful face.

She was the mother of his firstborn; and the reason put forth to stamp out the orders he had given his militia.

"_You_," 'Berovai snarled, picking up his steps and advancing on her.

Keeri's eyes went wide and she turned to flee from him; and Sicera's anger snapped into full-blown rage.

It was not her fault, she was gentle and easily cowed, that was one of the things he liked about her. She put up a struggle and cried and screamed. It was very gratifying. But, in that moment Sicera had had all he could take. She had made a fool out of him before the council without even being there, and now she had the audacity to try to run from him.

In truth he knew she had done nothing wrong, she was simply there in his moment of anger, an easy target close enough for him to get his hands on_. _He caught her without effort and Keeri yelped, wriggling as he spun her in his grasp. She struggled beautifully to escape him as he bellowed in her face, "Where are you going, you wretched, worthless cur?!"

The more she fought the more he shook her, enraged further at the fear in her wide eyes and the tiny prey sounds she made as he thrashed her about.

"S-iss-icera, please, let go-o of me," she screamed as he shook her about.

He hit her mouth with the back of his hand, a thunderous _crack_ filling the hall with Keeri's cry of pain.

In answer to her sobs Sicera balled a fist and hit her, and hit her, and hit her, her blood peppering the floor.

From down the hall there was a juvenile screech, and the pattering of tiny feet as Keeri's young child rushed to her defense. The boy was not yet a youngling, less than two years of age, small and utterly helpless. As he drew near it was evident that he was crying in his own fear even as he tugged at Sicera's cloak and robes and bawled for his mother.

'Berovai let go of his battered Mistress and wheeled on the child.

"You do not _touch_ me, boy!" Sicera bellowed, smacking the toddler and sending him careening into a wall.

_"Naaco..."_ Keeri cried weakly, trying to crawl to her son.

Sicera kicked her in the stomach then hauled her bodily from the polished stone floor. As he reared back to hit her again there was a sharp stinging pain in his leg and he looked down to see Naaco, barely able to pull himself up the mad kaidon's foot, tiny teeth sunken into Sicera's flesh.

'Berovai screamed rage and shook the child off.

"Please, Sicera. Pease, no. Do not hurt my son, please!"

Keeri kept bawling pleas which fell on deaf ears. 'Berovai had already lost touch with reality. A man who had killed his own father at his mother's behest looked down to see his Mistress and _her_ son and delusion folded over itself into psychotic rage.

"I know what you plan to _do_," he seethed, working his hands around her throat.

She shook her head, trying to pry his fingers away as she choked, "Sicera... no..."

He saw his hands, wrapped around her neck, and her eyes, bulging from her skull as he throttled the life out of her.

Her death would force the hands of the council and usher in a war against the House of Pish; and before he deployed Sicera would send to his mother's house for J'zeri 'Berov, who he would take as his Mistress. Despite the scandal it would cause, no one would doubt that _she _would act in the State's best interest in his absence.

As he felt small bones give way in Keeri's throat and saw her eyes break out in bloody spots of hemorrhage, there was a child's wailing cry and small hands clawing at him, scratching at him.

Sicera abandoned the body of his spent Mistress and snatched the child up, pulling a blade from his hip and holding the boy down as he carved the Mark of Disobedience into tiny arms. Naaco's arms. His son's arms. The enraged kaidon dragged the weeping boy down the halls and locked him away only to find him the next morn still alive, too young to understand he was expected to take his own life. So, Sicera cut him. He had maimed Naaco, castrated the child who screeched and cried and screamed and bled...

* * *

The noisy courtyard lurched to and fro ahead of him, and in Daniel's head the memory of his son's infantile screams faded to a deafening silence which seemed to close in as if from the depths of the very universe.

The scarred Elite was unaware of his feet carrying him forward.

The man shook Lucinda and screamed, "Where do you think you're going you stupid, alien-loving bitch!"

"Let go of me!" she yelped in fright as she tried to recoil, squirming in the man's grasp to get away.

In response he reared back and slapped her.

A silent snarl rippled across Daniel's lips as he felt a sudden and unimaginable _thing_ well up inside him, clamoring to be set loose. It was like rage, only... _more _so. This was violence and murder and worlds glassed bare and a species marked for extinction. This was the foundations of Daniel's world coming apart and the hell in which he had been holding captive the ferocity of Sciera 'Berovai splitting open. It was a cold feeling, icy realization passing across Daniel's conscience, and the weight of what he was slipped away beneath the waters of what he could have been.

Naaco appeared at Lucinda's heels. He was smaller than his peers in the crowd, unarmed, unarmored, and afraid but nonetheless reaching to clamp his hand around one of the man's wrists. The human pulled away and yelled. His mouth moved but the sound came out only as an inarticulate grunting of disgust and offense before he screamed, "_Get off of me you dickless little shit_!"

His voice carried across the crowd to Daniel's ears as the man reared back to take a swing at the slave.

This infuriated human could not have known how accurate his statement was, but issues of Sangheili gender subclasses aside, the fully emasculated slave still had a very alien skeletal system composed of common ossien interlocked with naturally occurring carbon fiber. A substance much stronger than human bone.

Lucinda crawled up Naaco's front, shouting, screaming for the man to leave Naaco alone, emerging over the boy's shoulder, her small hand splayed as if to ward off the attack. But, the man's fist connected with the side of Naaco's face and the slave yapped, his posture going submissive, trembling even as he crouched and clutched Lucinda, hitting his knees and pulling her down, covering her with his small frame... _protecting her as he had been unable to protect his mother_.

It came to him like a flash of clarity and Daniel saw himself, saw Sicera 'Berovai beyond sense and about to take it out on a helpless woman and his own son.

Daniel did not stop to think. He did not know what was happening to him as he stepped out from under the laws of his fathers but neither did he care. He ceased being an exile and in that moment he became the thing inside of him: the Vengeant Shepherd who ravenously prowled the galaxy consuming the enemy with his wrath.

And the enemy was the memory of himself.

The feeling of it crawled beneath his flesh, burned through his veins like liquid fire, and sang across his senses as it fell over him like a refreshing storm, tearing open a part of himself lost to time and greed and honor. He was death incarnate, given the chance to live again.

Daniel charged, not really seeing the man stumbling back screeching, looking at his hand which was knotted with broken metacarpals that lumped beneath the surface.

Daniel tore up the courtyard like a deadly force of nature, machete in hand and the sea of people in his direct path stumbled over themselves to part before him. He uttered not a sound as he moved, his silent and focused rage making him all the more monstrous, transforming his face from ugly to ugly and _mean_, giving everyone who was in a position to see it a glimpse of why he was once considered the most vicious man in the entire Covenant Army. He was a man unhinged. Unhindered by the rules of the world around him.

He drew back, in a practiced movement easier than taking a breath, and hurled the machete from his hand. The weapon flashed for the briefest of moments in the moonlight as it tipped end over end. Its heavy weight cut the air in a quick _woosh-__wosoh-woosh _before coming to rest, stopping with a wet _thunk _as the blade was buried through-and-through the man's gut.

Amy watched, feeling her mouth quiver, aware of the scream that just wouldn't escape her lips as a hush fell across the mob. The mood of the people around her shifted from anger to stunned terror. Daniel's face was twisted in a silent snarl of hate as he advanced on the staggering man who was looking down at this stomach in choking disbelief.

Daniel was on him in an instant, skidding to a stop, feet digging into the dirt, letting momentum carry his arm and shoulder forward as his hand closed around the machete's protruding hilt.

An agony rich, ear splitting scream escaped the man's gaping mouth as Daniel twisted, feeling the blade rip through flesh and organs, bones and sinews, severing the man's spine as he was hauled squealing like a pig from the ground.

Daniel violently wrenched the weapon back, pulling the blade free, sending blood and guts slinging across the dirt in its wake like a macabre line drawn in the sand at the scarred Elite's feet.

The man's body hit the ground a half second later and in one fluid motion Daniel stepped forward like a lunging predator, scarred foot spanning the draining man's back, hoved toes digging into flesh as he pinned the prey to the ground. Beneath the Elite's weight bones cracked and snapped and organs burst as ribs and chest caved under Daniel's weight.

Still he reared back, eyes flashing fury as he brought the machete down to feel it's blade cut through flesh and connective tissues with a dull _th-wack _to liberate the man's head from his shoulders.

_Oh my God_, Amy had time to think as, for only a few moments more an eerie stillness gripped the complex.

Just that quickly, Daniel had done what the swarm soldiers and warriors had been unable to do. Then cries burst forth from mob of a different timbre. This grotesque disregard for life, and the open show of superior and unabashed force took the fight right out of the civilians, sending them scattering, stampeding in their haste to get away. Most fled to the dormitories and other buildings, pushing and shoving, but several went rushing out into the night in their animal panic to flee.

Amy stood there, buffered against people scrambling in terror by an Elite who was at her side. Warriors and soldiers looked on silently as Daniel sheathed his weapon and dropped to the ground on his knees to gather Naaco and Lucinda in his arms as he wailed.


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's Note: **As always, a special thanks to my reviewers: KATT9033, HatchetHaro, Didd23, GuardianStarka, LyndaKey1, Nalani, and the anonymous Guest, whoever you are.

I know, I'm late with this update, and this is waaaay longer than I usually write. I worked my hind-end off on this, so I sincerely hope it turned out. It's not as pretty, but, eh, they can't all be. I've got to get us from _here_ to _there_ somehow.

Nalani: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I tried to get it done before you had to go back to work, I really did. :(

KATT9033: There is a scene (you'll know which one) just for you.

I will be making **no** promises or estimates of when my next post may be. When I do that, it seems something always gets in the way (like a PC taking a dive, or my smart-phone crapping out, or my flash drive just refusing to work...).

But enough about real life, authory problems. Read and enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Thirty

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

The hours before dawn progressed in a blur. When the civilians scattered, leaving soldiers and warriors and others in the courtyard, members of leadership began immediately diverting their keyed-up and restless nerves to trying to set the place back to order. 'Korid broke the personnel up into various details. Many were assigned under Jesh 'Mortum and Alexander Lovelace for an additional security force, others were reserved for clean-up and search parties, while the rest were ordered to return to their previously assigned duties and posts.

It was sometime during all of this that the bodies of Sister Mary Rachel and Hagart Deléon were discovered. The complex was put on lock-down and troops were sent to check and secure the neighboring monastery.

A full account of residents, personnel, and equipment was undertaken. 'Caaln and 'Oosuk took responsibility for those on the front, and Trooper Andrews and Father Bradshaw saw to the civilians. Gator and his bikers vouched for several sympathetic people who volunteered to help and these were sent to act as intermediaries: to either help calm the terrified civilians holed up indoors or to go with the search teams to find those who had scattered into the darkness.

Before the search parties broke away, Amy made it clear no one was to be forced to return. "This is for accountability only," she said, climbing onto the front bumper of a Warthog to be seen and heard, "These people are scared and if they want to leave, you let them. They can retrieve personal belongings and supplies and anything else they brought in with them. It can be sorted out easily enough." When she hopped down to head for the infirmary, she turned to Gator and nodded toward the civilian dormitories, "That goes for anyone else. This place isn't a _prison."_

Nursing staff were escorted in under heavy guard and as they began attending to the wounded Amy and Foxy Lady strung a sheet from the infirmary ceiling. The make-shift curtain was erected to conceal the corner of the ward which was being used as a morgue. 'Hakkamr and a small group of Elites handled the dead. The bodies were wrapped in sheets and stacked out of sight like gruesome cords of wood.

Though there were a few civilians who sustained minor wounds the most seriously injured were Amy's people. Vae, Jhett, and Eeth had injuries consistent with having been relatively close to the detonations of fragmentation grenades. The Elites' faces and the heels of their hands were peppered with cuts and lacerations. Eeth had a deep gash to his chest with a chunk of metal sticking out which the nuns removed, marveling as they did at the bandage holding the wound together and acting as a second skin.

N'Rule was also there, at first. Though he appeared to suffer a concussion and numerous wounds resulting from being caught in the combined explosion of two miniature claymore mines, he made it clear he was there to do what he could to render aid and for accountability purposes only. With the former matter well resolved, and as the others were looked over and submitted to being minimally tended, N'Rule retreat to places unknown to nurse his wounds and guilt in private. The bodies of Beauford "Smitty" Smith and Kurt Jordan had cushioned the explosive force and taken the brunt of the shrapnel N'Rule felt intended for him. Added to that burden was knowing it had been his foot which had tripped the explosives and claimed the humans' lives.

Cory Trice had a laceration to his head which required stitching, otherwise he fared only slightly worse than Peach and Locket who had escaped with minor cuts and bruises. Allison Winnefrid had a respectable goose eggs on her temple, a blackening eye, and an elbow which had been partially dislocated.

"I tripped," the corporal admitted tightly, "When we heard the scream Smitty and I... he cleared the porch but I tripped over the damned table."

The fall had thrown her through the porch rail, sending her crashing out in the courtyard catching herself at a bad angle. To her credit it hadn't stopped her and Allison had only taken stock of her injuries later.

"The only reason I'm alive and he isn't is because I'm a klutz," she said bitterly, casting a side-long, hang-dog glance at the curtained-off corner of the room. "What _happened_, Sarge?" She rasped.

It took Amy a few moments to answer, the weight of responsibility and grief she didn't have time to acknowledge weighing on her. She realized there was only one answer, "I don't know. We're trying to figure it out, but..." She sighed and shook her head.

Allison closed her eyes as Sister Penelope began arranging her arm in a gauze sling, "Have they found Dak?" Winnefrid asked, turning her face to the floor.

Starr felt her heart squeeze. She was well aware the corporal had an affection for the Elite in question.

"No," she said, trying to keep her voice neutral, "But they're still looking."

There had been no sightings of Gillery or Jones either, and though these few hours later the search parties had returned to report tracking and locating most of the civilians, there had been too many scents for the Elites to determine where Dak, Gill, and Donnovan had gone. The trail was cold and the last trace of 'Varlemai had been followed as far as it could, well beyond the borders of the front line.

That made no sense whatsoever, and Amy wasn't in a place where she could let her mind ponder the implications. It was too frightening, so she carefully evaded the subject.

As soon as her people were cleared, Starr sent them off with orders to get themselves food and showers and rest. Things she desperately needed herself but which would have to wait.

She and Foxy Lady helped the nuns on duty with a bit of clean up, but were soon shooed off. Foxy headed for the refactory and after taking a few moments in the infirmary's atrium to just be alone, Amy stepped out onto the porch and found herself looking over the scene of Allison's accident. A small card table was turned over on its face. Two chairs rested at discarded angles. Playing cards and chits were strewn about, and the side railing of the porch was busted through. Shattered and disjointed rails lay at the edge of the courtyard.

The thought occurred to Amy that she should clean some of the mess up, but it hadn't yet registered as requiring movement on her tired body's part when she heard a door slam at the head of the courtyard. Amy turned and saw Daniel stepping down the porch steps from the main house, the look of tempered hostility in his hooded eyes.

The words _oh shit_ crossed her mind.

Daniel was shirtless; and his arms, face, legs, pants, and feet were still blood-spattered. There was a line of dried gore running down his arm from the holstered machete, and a heavy, tattered cloak of emerald fur swinging from his shoulders, following him with rippling, liquid motions.

Amy watched as he approached 'Korid, Naaco following close behind. The two warriors held a brief discussion in which Daniel communicated by squatting to draw runes in the dirt. For his part, Torsch spoke very little, and when it was over he nodded once and turned, leaving Daniel where he stood, his eyes cold and calculating. Then, Naaco gestured and Daniel seemed to soften as he followed the small Elite on down the courtyard.

"Sergeant Starr?"

Amy startled, turning to see Alexander Lovelace as he approached.

"Tell me they've found them," Starr said, hope rising in her chest that this was all about to start making sense and she didn't need to worry about...

The police lieutenant stopped, his face going apologetic as he pursed his lips, his jowly cheeks jiggling when he shook his head, "Sorry, no."

Amy almost cursed aloud, the weight of disappointment and fear sliding heavily through her worn-out body.

"But, ah," Lovelace went on, "But there is something I wanted to run by you."

"Okay," Amy answered, feeling anything but.

"If it's all the same to you, I've started compiling the information we've got so far, taking statements from witnesses and the like," he said. Amy blinked at him and he went on, "Peter Andrews has said he'll help me out. I think it'll make the people feel better, you know, if they think we're more on top of this than we are. I figure if I can get a report going, it might help later when you... uh... well, when you talk to 'em."

Starr looked at the man without expression, not excited at being reminded she was the unofficial PR rep, "Alright," she said.

"Now, don't look at me like that," the Hawaiian shirt clad police officer said, "These people are mad and scared and they want answers..."

"That makes the lot of us," Amy snapped.

Lovelace sighed, "I know. I know. It's just... We're at thirteen dead, twenty-three wounded, and three unaccounted for, Sergeant Starr. We got lucky with the wounded, and all the civilians have been located, sure; but 'Varlemai, Gillery, and Jones are still missing these five... nearly six hours later and 'Caaln has reported being down one truck. Now, I never did work investigations but it's pretty clear to me the targets were Hagart and his men. And these three we got turning up missing at the same time, now, that looks pretty suspicious, if you're askin' me. Of what I can't rightly say, but people got good reason to be afraid. So far there are twenty who have made noise about leaving," he shifted his paunchy bulk and motioned to the sky, "And the suns aren't even up."

His use of the word _suspicions_ made Amy's guts turn. It _was_ suspicious. She didn't for a moment believe Dak had anything other than a good reason for being gone. But where was Donnovan? And why hadn't Gill turned up yet? It was more than Amy wanted to dwell on.

She folded her arms over her chest against building unease.

"Look," Lovelace said gently, "I'm only doing an' sayin' all this to try to help. We don't know nothin' for sure, but that doesn't mean I'm okay with sending you in to talk to them with any less information than absolutely possible."

"I know," Amy said, deflating.

Alexander smiled, "You can't make 'em all happy. Hell, there's even talk about demanding action against _Daniel."_

Amy snorted and rolled her eyes, "What action?" she asked, "I'm fairly certain the chances of him being arrested and tried are between none and when hell freezes over. And you know what? I'm okay with that. There's still a _war_ going on and whether people liked it or not _that_ matters."

Lovelace held his hands up in surrender, a wan smile on his face.

The way Amy remembered it, people had done stupid things and gotten themselves killed, though she was probably more than a bit biased at this point. What was the reasonable standard by which actions were judged in this situation? Sure, there had been unintended losses and injuries, but that did tend to happen during a _war._ Damnit, they were doing the best they could here...did people really think they were going to pause _right now_ and hold tribunal? Assess collateral damage? And, what would family members get in the way of compensation? A few connexes full of second hand clothes? Some canned goods? Was this really when and how they were going to divide lots?

"How the hell are we going to keep this place together?" Amy murmured, too tired to even deal with her own anger. "What are we going to do even _if_ we manage to take the city from Ashmund?" she asked, "Then what? We implode every time something happens, like we're doing here?"

Amy shook her head, feeling the full weight of what it could mean.

"One day at a time," Lovelce said, "We handle it all one day at a time, s'all we can do. Now, you need to get some rest," Amy nodded and he added, "I'll have a little something written up for you to look over after noon. I can't promise it'll be complete, but it'll be something. Now, go on."

He said the last words gently, and as Amy began walking toward the main house she could feel her body protest with aches and pains and exhaustion.

* * *

N'Rule walked toward the complex, almost invisible in active camouflage, wishing it were so easy to truly disappear. He was carrying the bulk of his armor in an interlocking bundle of itself over one shoulder. His wounds had been numbed by hours of pulling glassy fragments from his face and neck and hands and all the places where the shrapnel had met the lines of his armor to penetrate his bodysuit. The balm he had applied was helping and in a daily cycle his hide would be nearly mended if sore. That bothered him none. It was feeling as if he had gotten the human soldiers killed that gnawed at him. Smitty he had barely known, but Jordan had been a fixture of the arms team.

N'Rule would have called him friend. And now he was dead.

The sky was threatening sunrise at the horizon and the complex was quiet, with lights burning in every building. With a sigh, the Elite Stealth Minor approached the blocky outlines of connexes which formed a line just beyond the Sangheili dormitory.

He drug his feet against the sand, moving at a purely obligatory pace as he passed the low storage containers and approached the door to the dwelling. He was in no hurry, his mind full of the pain of having to wash blood and gore from his armor at a cistern pump, to watch pieces of his friend and a fellow soldier wash to the ground.

Having spent a few hours afterward in meditative solitude, N'Rule found it difficult to return. Stepping up to the door, his feet drew to a stop and he placed a hand on the doorknob. He heard a soft hiccup and turned, head tilting and ear buds scanning.

A sniffle.

Someone shifting against the rye grass and sand.

Curious, N'Rule abandoned his gear and slunk back toward the connexes. He followed the sound of shuttering breaths, a heavy sigh, a nose being blown.

_Sniff, sniff._

He slipped along and between the heavy storage containers, rounding a corner and finding Sister Penelope as she sat in a small alcove created by the butting juncture of two connexes and a storage pod. It was a good place to hide. N'Rule drew up short and stepped back, crouching as he went. The small nun gave no indication of having caught a hint of his camouflage rippling to give him away. He lowered himself to the dirt around the corner and out of her view; sitting as he killed the energy field which had kept him hidden and leaning to rest against the connex's cool surface.

"Sister," he rumbled softly after a few moments.

He heard her sigh heavily.

"I am sorry," he offered, "It was not my intention to intrude but..."

"It's okay, N'Rule," she whispered.

He heard the rustle of movement and she emerged, scooting against the dirt to sit next to him. So very... _next_ to him.

Her ruddy face was abloom with blotches and her eyes were swollen from crying. Mousy brown hair had all but come completely loose from a functional braid which she idly worked to comb with one hand, a few determined tangles still loosely interwoven. She wiped her puffy eyes with the wad of her wimple. N'Rule could not recall having seen any of the nuns without the headdress and he wondered in that moment if this were not some kind of taboo.

He felt the weight of sadness for her as the young nun crushed the wedge of fabric to her face and tried to stifle a fresh wave of sobs.

"No," he rumbled low, feeling his hearts twist into knots, "Please, do not do that."

"I can't hel-elp it," she said in a muffled sob, "I'm s-sorry, I just..." With that, she dissolved into tears and he nearly jumped out of his skin when she slumped to lean against him, burying her head against his chest.

He sat there staring at her, not daring to move even to offer her comfort for what felt forever as she cried.

When her sobs abated back to sniffs she remained leaned against him, and he watched as she picked at a rip in the arm of his bodysuit.

"It's not fair," she said in a voice weak from crying, "I know I'm n-not sup-p-posed to take sides." She drew a trembling breath, "But... it's not... _fair,_ it's just not..." her words trailed off.

N'Rule looked down and she pressed her face against his chest and sobbed, "How can I n-not take si-ides after this? That could have-ave been _my_ dad or _my_ uncles who were shot. How can I not-ot think that who-o ever did this should be-e... _punished!"_

Then she gasped, sitting bolt upright and clamping her hands over her mouth, appearing to bite into her wimple as she looked back at him with mortified, wide eyes.

"Does that make me a bad Christian?" she asked, her words muffled, fresh tears falling across her knuckles and disappearing into the fabric.

N'Rule softened, all of his cultural upbringing regarding Priestesses, these Sisters, slipping aside.

"No," he said, reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

Sister Penelope dropped her hands into her lap and looked down as she twiddled her fingers and steadied her breathing, smiling cynically as she said, "Father Bradshaw is supposed to walk me through my final vows and here I am..."

N'Rule reached and caught her chin, tipping her face as a wistful smile pull at his mandibles and shook his head, "Do not let this rob you of your faith, Little Sister."

* * *

Amy drug herself upstairs where she peeled off her blood-soaked and filth crusted clothes before slipping into a boiling hot shower. There, she scrubbed her tired body and washed the grime from her hair while her hands trembled with exhaustion.

Once clean, Starr padded down the hall wrapped in a towel, slipping into her room and dumping her dingy clothing in a wad on the floor. She closed the door and began to search for clean clothes, digging a shirt and tac pants from a pile and sniffing them to make sure they were clean before slipping them on. Twisting her hair up into a wet bun, Amy located her boots then took a longing look at her bed before abandoning the hope of sleep. She was bone tired, her body aching, and she felt like she could lay down and sleep for a week, but there was entirely too much in her head, no matter how exhausted she was.

So, back downstairs she went to put coffee on in the kitchen. While the pot began to gurgle and hiss, Starr ambled into the forgotten mess of the dining room. She found the table overturned on its side and the communications node sitting nearby on the floor on its up-end. Both of those things were too big and too heavy for her to manage alone so instead she began to right chairs and pick up papers and pens and scattered, smaller debris.

With sundry items collected into a pile, Amy stepped from the dining room and crossed back to the kitchen. The smell of perking coffee filled her head with the promise of caffeine-induced euphoria, and with a smile curling her lips, Starr pulled the trash can from its corner cubby and retrieved a broom and dust pan from the alcove off the basement stairs. She returned to the dining room to gather the larger shards of broken glass and chunks of drywall before beginning to sweep the dust and bits of glass from the hardwood floors.

For the longest time the only sounds were the rustle of her clothing and the swish of the broom with the occasional tinkling of glass. It felt good to be doing something which didn't require much thought, even though her mind refused to be still.

Amy knew it could have been worse, though it was difficult to convince herself of that fact as she recalled the death and destruction, people going mad in the courtyard... _Daniel._

When she finished sweeping, Amy dumped the final fragments into the trash can and tied the bag over its burgeoning contents. She dragged the hefty receptacle back to the kitchen and there she went through the motions of emptying the trash as if it were an ordinary day. Starr replaced the bag, setting the full one by the back door before stowing the trash can in its cubby. After she returned the broom and dust pan to the stairwell alcove, she drew up a cup of coffee and assault it with sugar, then paused and gazed out the small window over the sink.

She saw people milling about in various states of numbness and disbelief, trying to go on with life in the harsh break of day. Already, ten fresh graves were being dug in the cemetery. Only ten. Sister Mary Rachel would be interred in the consecrated grounds of the neighboring monastery and what was left of Telam 'Ragesh and Phulu 'Warren would be burned.

Amy slurped at her coffee and left the window. Walking back to the dining room she grabbed a chair, dragging it next to the vertical face of the table before sitting heavily. She propped an elbow on the table's edge in lieu of the top surface and blew on her coffee, feeling numb.

Sitting there alone, Amy's eyes burned with exhaustion, physical and mental and emotional, and as she pushed her coffee cup aside and buried her face against her forearms she wondered again what the hell they were going to do now, and just what the actual fuck she was going to begin to tell all of these people.

She didn't know how long she slept like that; she wasn't even aware she had even fallen asleep until the screen door across the kitchen screeched on its hinges and slammed against the outer wall of the house. Amy bolted upright, startled as she saw Daniel and Majors 'Korid and 'Hakkamr crossing the kitchen.

The Elites entered the room and Amy scrambled out if their way, snatching up her coffee cup as they righted the table without so much as acknowledging her presence. She realized she had to have been asleep for a while because the windows were bright with daylight and the coffee cup was cold in her hands. As Daniel went about digging through papers and scattering them across the table in some order, 'Korid and 'Hakkamr paused briefly. They eyed each other and Amy realized this was probably the first time they had been in the same room together since the night before. Trosch was the first to unclip his sword hilt and set the inactive weapon in the table, then Kote nodded with a snort, doing the same.

Amy knew a truce when she saw one.

'Korid then set a mapping transmitter, purple with Sangheili blood and crusted in sand, in the center of the table and called up the image. The hologram of Ambrosia II flicked to life and automatically began to orient itself, turning and rotating, zooming in on the planet's continental sprawl. Buildings and roads came into view and the cartographer closed in on New Saint Etienne, reveling a red dot which winked at the western coastline.

"That's Caddo Proper," Amy said. She leaned in, recognizing the lines of long boulevards, "The county seat... and this marker is at the Governor's Mansion."

"_That marker_," 'Korid snarled, "Is Donnovan Jones' tracking collar. It appears your friend, _Gill_, is one of Ashmund's men."

"What?" Amy breathed, hearing the thing she had refuse to admit to herself as it was said aloud, "No. You can't know that for sure..."

"Can and _do,_ Sergeant Starr," he sneered, "Unless you prefer to call General 'Varlemai a liar."

* * *

"Dak!"

The Elite general turned his head painfully in the direction of Allison Winnefrid's voice, because it damned sure couldn't have been said that he _looked_ at her. He was sitting in the middle of the ward, on the floor. None of the medical cots were rated for his weight, and though his size meant he still towered head and shoulders above everyone, sitting on the floor put him closer to eye level with the nuns who were flitting about.

His face had been reduced to dirt- and bloody scab-covered mush. His right eye was swollen completely shut and all over his head Allison could make out crisscrossing ropes of contused flesh. Bullets had penetrated skin but not his skull and had traversed beneath the flesh before finding exit. There was a puckered forward entry wound just above his right eye and Allison could see bone where a bullet had exited at the front of his right cheek. On the other side of his face the end of a left mandible was little more than ragged flesh crowned with a shattered fang.

It was painful to look at him.

His good eye was open a crack against swelling, and Winnefrid saw Dak's usually copper iris was purple and brown with hemorrhage. Dark drops of blood and fluids leaked from the corner of the eye and ran down the side of his face like jellied tears, sliding amid bloody gunk. His mandibles were swollen to the point of bursting and his lips were cracked and crusted with a half-dried gruel of coagulated blood and dirt.

A leathery bandage was adhered around his throat and appeared to hold his neck together atop a mass of ravaged, cushionoid tissue. This dressing wound up in a hasty, self-applied fashion and mostly covered wounds at the back of his head, though his skull was plainly visible through a rather large void. His whole body was covered in a splattered coat of dried and congealed blood. The gore was sticky and had captured an assortment of debris.

Sister Heloise fussed, holding a blue plastic basin with a flared rim, sloshing murky water as she tried to dab Dak's face with a heavy-knit, aqua-colored cloth.

Though his face was turned toward Allison he dodged the nun's hand, grumbling, "Touch-ing me-e."

"He doesn't like to be touched," Winnefrid said, crossing the ward.

"Well, we can't _wish_ him clean," the old battle-ax of a nun sighed, "We need to get him rinsed so we can see how much has healed and what still needs bandaging. Here, you do this" Sister Heloise said, setting the basin on the floor near Dak's hip. "Like this," the woman stood on tip-toes and wrung the cloth one-handed over the Elite's head. She braced herself against his shoulder as she demonstrated what she wanted done.

'Varlemai's nostril slits quivered and he let out a whine, trying to move away, causing the woman to nearly topple as he grumbled with effort, _"Touching..._ me."

_"You stop that,"_ Heloise snapped, wagging a finger at him as she passed the cloth to the corporal.

Dak hunched his shoulders and squirmed.

"I've got it," Winnefrid said as the other woman turned and rushed away, pulling Sister Lisa after her toward the rear of the infirmary.

Allison bent and dipped the cloth into the warm, soapy water then proceeded to wring it out over Dak's armor.

"Touching me," he grumbled again.

"I know, I'm sorry, but we have to," Allison said softly.

Resigned for the moment, 'Varlemai watched her work. Eventually he spied her blackened eye and reached toward her face, "You-u hurt?" he said, the tips of his index fingers grazing her temple.

"No, it's fine," Winnefrid said, pulling her head away as she dipped the cloth into the water.

"This for?" he asked, touching the sling.

"My arm, Dak," Winnefrid sighed, "I fell, but I'm fine now. Stop it. No, stop."

She pressed the cloth to his temple and pushed him back, then painted the water over his head.

"You..." he mumbled, "... _wash_ me?"

Allison stopped and stared at him. Then she draped the cloth over his face, "Don't make this weird, you giant freak of nature."

She continued to rinse him, the bloody goo gooping up his wounds breaking loose; and he continued not liking it, squirming even as he brushed the scrapes he found on her arms.

Otherwise, he was compliant, his chest heaving as he struggled to draw shallow reedy breaths.

"He s-shot my head," Dak said as if to be helpful.

Allison chewed at a lip and patted the cloth carefully against the side of his face. He dropped his snout and added with dejection, "I ch-chased him b-ut it went black and h-he... got aw-away."

Winnefrid froze, her heart leaping into her throat as her mind conjured the image of the severely injured warrior wandering like a guard dog not ready to come home because he had let the bad guy get away.

"My head h-hurts."

"I'm sorry," Allison said in a feathery voice.

Sister Heloise and Sister Lisa reappeared, their arms loaded and their mouths jabbering and Dak scooting away from their approach.

"No," Allison admonished, "Sit still. They're not going to hurt you."

He looked at her with his one good eye and said forlornly, "Do not like... the touching me-e."

"I know."

"Get the armor off," Heloise said to Lisa, "We'll need to start IV fluids for good measure. Quick now."

Both of the holy women reached to take hold of his assault harness and Dak nearly came off the ground.

"No-no, no-no-no," Winnefrid sang, reaching to restrain the huge Elite.

Dak could have overpowered them easily, but instead looked at Allison, then at the other women, and reluctantly sat himself back down.

He reached and deactivated magnetic clasps, earning approving nods from all. This seemed to make him squirm all the more.

Removing the chest rig revealed two gunshot wounds to his upper body. They were through-and-through his right chest, leaving their exit wounds seeping down his back. His undersuit was crusted with partly-dried, sticky blood. Holes in the garment leaked a congealed gunk which trailed in rivulets down his torso to gum up at the armor plates covering his hips and groin.

Sister Lisa took medical sheers to a cuff and split it across his forearm, then Sister Heloise took the scissor and cut the bodysuit at the neck, slicing it down to his navel and pulling it open over his shoulders and chest to get better access to the wounds.

The nuns worked on, but Allison's eyes went wide and she stared, "Uh... _Dak?"_

Spanning his chest and standing out against dark gray hide in white semi-relief was what appeared to be a freeze brand overlaid with heavy tattooing, intricately and deliberately layered with tooled scars. It was shaped somewhat like distorted and conjoined biohazard symbols, huge and curling, with sweeping arcs and interlocked designs that sprawled the expanse of 'Varlemai's chest from one side to the damaged other.

"What is _that_?" Winnefrid asked breathlessly.

"Rune of...Zakee," he answered, "Mark of the Sons of Dam-amnation."

_"Holy..."_ Allison whispered, stepping forward to touch the mark, "That means all that stuff... it's true isn't it?"

Dak nodded slowly, _"All_ true," then, "Not to t-tell."

Allison reached up and went through the motions of zipping her lips and throwing away the key.

"This is a flutter valve," Sister Heloise suddenly chirped in her own surprise.

Dak broke Allison's gaze and lifted his arm, looking down to where the nun was inspecting the port which peeked out between his ribs near the pit of his arm. She moved to touch his side and he shied away with a hiss, _"Touching."_

Sister Heloise straightened, "He has a thoracic drain," she said, then turned to him, "Did you do this?"

"Could not... breathe," 'Varlemai said, "Went bl-black."

The senior nun stood there staring at Dak for a moment then snapped, "IV, now."

Sister Lisa looked to Allison, her expression one of a terrified deer caught in a vehicle's headlights, "He... he put in his own _chest drain,"_ she squeaked in terror.

Dak cocked his head and Winnefrid grinned, plucking a tourniquet from the frozen nun's hand. Allison stretched the length of heavy rubber around 'Varlemai's beefy forearm just below the elbow and tied it off.

He watched then turned his disconcerted gaze to her face.

The corporal rolled her eyes, "I know. I know. The touching you," she said, before reaching to turn his wrist, exposing his inner forearm, "I haven't done this since Field Medic School, so..."

"Done what?" 'Varlemai grumbled.

It took Sister Lisa two tries to break the sterile pack and hand Winnefrid the IV catheter needle. To which Dak promptly jerked his arm away, nearly dragging the corporal into his lap.

_"Hey!"_ Allison shouted as she landed against the middle of his chest, struggling to keep from waywardly stabbing either one of them.

She scrambled for footing and stood, "You don't get to stick a drain in _your own chest_ and show up with _that_," she nodded toward his tattooed hide as she took his hand and rolled his arm over, "Then play squeamish with needles, _Mister Bad-Ass Tattooed Sangheili Man."_

He snorted at her and in return she slapped the inside of his forearm, causing a vein distended from beneath the Elite's dark gray skin.

'Varlemai made a whining sound and when Allison jabbed the catheter needle in he growled a deep and petulant, _"Ouch."_

Winnefrid gave him a look, doing her best not to smile, "Don't be cute."

* * *

Amy should have thought to have the meeting _before_ the burials. Before emotions and accusations were rekindled. Because now, as afternoon was drawing to evening, people just wanted to argue and she wasn't in a mood to deal with it.

Starr barely felt alive, much less like a soldier. She had only slept a few hours in the last forty to forty-two, and as yet hadn't been able to make herself eat anything. She had attended eleven funerals that afternoon: one at the monestery then ten held back-to-back at the complex, six of which she had spoken at. Then there had been the cremation ceremony for the Elites. All the while trying to choke back the feeling that this had been her fault.

There had been Lovelace's report to read and General 'Varlemai's account to digest, AND comms to assess and a whole new plan of attack to conjure. Given the fact that she had told Gill _everything_ and that he was probably telling Ashmund all the details at that very moment, Amy felt like the last person on the planet who should be acting as spokesperson. She was tired, and felt sick, so when someone started demanding she do something about Daniel, the last bit of civility she had held in reserve dissipated.

Amy walked across the small platform at the front of the church and asked Trooper Andrews for his handcuffs. He pulled them from the holster on his belt and she took them, dangling one cuff from an extended finger and swinging the other like a pendulum as she walked up to the man who had spoken.

"Here, please," she said mockingly, thrusting the handcuffs toward him, "Be my guest."

"Are you _crazy?"_ The man hissed, "You saw what he did to Bobby. I'm not going near him."

Amy stared at him for a moment, "I see," she said evenly, turning and walking back to Andrews, handing him the cuffs, "So you don't want to do it. And I'm guessing there are no other takers," she looked around the room, bracing her arms against the pulpit.

Eyes shifted. A few glared from around the crowded chapel. "No?" Amy prompted, "Alright then. Because let's get this straight right here, right now: I'm not going to. My people aren't going to," she waved a hand toward where Andrews, Lovelace, and Gator stood nodding solemnly, "And I'm pretty sure the Elites aren't going to. Shall I go ask them?"

"So..." the man seethed, "Then, _what_? Daniel and the rest of them get away with _murder_?"

Starr walked around the small lectern, "Murder?" she said, "_Murder_? Let me tell you about murder. Murder is what someone did to Hagart and Charlie and Lance. Murder is what happened to Smitty, Jordan, Telam, and Phulu when they were _blown up_ trying to protect _you_. Murder is what happened at Fort Champlain, what happened when Azrael Ashmund doomed hundreds of people with an illness we can't fight any other way than with _death_. Murder is what is probably happening _right now_ in New Saint Etienne. It's what some of _your_ people did when they pulled a gun and shot Sergeant Paulie. Murder _is not_ what happened when my people fired back, and it _isn't _what happened to Bobby. _Bobby_ played with fire and got his guts ripped out. Yeah, it was barbaric, and I'm sure if we talk about it long enough we can come up with a thousand and ten ways it could have ended differently. But none of that matters because we don't have the time and whether you people believe it or not, the man who did that is going to lead us against Ashmund. Daniel is on our side and _we need him_. Welcome to The Calculus of War 101. You don't have to like it. But, that's the world we live in. Now, if there's nothing else..."

"His name is Gilbert."

Amy saw Tom Beauchaine slowly stand at the end of a crowded pew with his hat in his hands, his wife sitting next to him pleading for him to sit back down.

"_What_?" Starr rasped as she stepped down from the low platform at the front of the church.

Beauchaine couldn't bring himself to make eye contact but said, "I don't know if'n it helps now but... the man you were talkin' to last night at dinner. His name is Gilbert Dufraine."

Starr felt her whole body go cold, "How do you know that?"

"He, ah..." Tom swallowed, "I seen him around sometimes back when Donny and me ran a lot of, er... um... See, I.. I didn't say nuthin' on account of he's Ashmund's..."

"_You son of a bitch!_" Amy screamed.

There were gasps and a few startled yelps, and people rushed to stop her. But before anyone could hold her back, Amy charged down the aisle and punched Tom Beauchaine square in the face. He staggered into the people next to him and as Gator and Peter Andrews tried to pull her away she grabbed Beauchaine by what was left of his hair, dragging him out into the aisle.

For a moment there was a tangle of grabbing and pulling but eventually Amy stood, still holding Tom by the hair on the back of his head while he held his nose and bled through his fingers. He yowled in surprise as she turned and dragged him from the church; Lovelace, Gator, and Andrews on her heels followed by a gaggle of stunned, muttering civilians.

People stopped in the courtyard and stared as Amy pulled Tom along. Elites and soldiers paused, watching as Starr towed the flailing and stumbling Beauchaine all the way down the courtyard to the cemetery. There, she shoved him to the ground as hard as she could, tears breaking free of her eyes.

"Take a _good look_," she shouted, grabbing the man's head again and stuffing his face into the freshly turned earth, "Look at it! These people are dead, _dead_ because you said _nothing_." She reared back and 'Korid was there, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her from the ground before she could land a boot in Tom's stomach.

"_That is enough_," the Stealth Major barked.

She fought violently to free herself, shoving against Torsch's chest as he set her on her feet.

"_No_," she screeched, "That's not even _close_ to enough."

People had gathered near to watch, clustering at the end of the courtyard. Amy saw Daniel and Kote among them... and General 'Varlemai. He was in shattered armor and had bandages on his swollen face. Starr shoved past 'Korid and stomped up to the stoic, huge Elite, "You want a prisoner? Well, there he is," she said with an ugly sneer, "He's _all_ yours."

Kote, Daniel, and Torsch exchanged sideways glances as the crowd broke out in murmurs, Susan Beauchaine's sob easily heard over the chatter.

"_Amy_," 'Korid hissed, "You do not know what you are saying..."

_"I don't care!"_ she screamed, taking a threatening step toward Tom. He cowered, still in the dirt on his hands and knees, fear evident in his eyes at what was now being discussed.

"He's just as guilty for their deaths," Amy cried, "He could have _stopped it_. He could have _said something _and I want to know what else he isn't telling us. His blood can be on _my hands_ if you don't like it, but I want to know _everything_ he knows and I don't care what _**he**_ has to do to get it." She jabbed a finger at Dak, who simply cocked his bruised, bandaged head in response. "Do you hear me?" she screamed at Tom, "If that means peeling the skin from your bones or breaking your skull open and digging the information out with a spoon then so be it!"

The three other Elites exchanged glances again, all a bit uncomfortable with how close the angry woman had come to guessing just what 'Varlemai was capable of.

Dak stood there without expression, then stepped forward and grabbed Tom, lifting him by the back of his shirt, "As you have said it," the general growled as Amy stormed away.

* * *

Nearly an hour later Torsch slipped through the narrow main door of the forge. He found Amy there, at a work bench assembling some manner of weapon.

"Go. _Away_," Starr said, not bothering to look up.

"I will not," he rumbled softly.

She went rigid at the sound of his voice, then sniffed and wiped her eyes with an arm. "Of course you won't," she laughed without mirth, "This is the part where you pretend you have something important and manly to say," she mocked.

He gave no retort, knowing he deserved that. At least.

"Or," she went on, snapping another part together, "Maybe it's the part where you finally get to tell me you were right?"

"No," he said quietly.

"That I fucked it all up?" Amy went on, pausing to look at her project without seeing it, "That this is all my fault? That you tried to warn me but I just wouldn't listen? Is that it?" she finally looked at him, "Well? What do you _want_ from me, _'Korid?"_

He stepped quietly toward her, crossing the forge and setting a covered dish down on the corner of the work bench.

She stared at it for a moment then went back to her project.

"It occurs to me," he said, "that I was perhaps a bit hard on you this morning in that regard."

She snorted, _"It that regard._ Way to say you told me so."

"That is not what I mean," he said.

"Well, you _should,"_ Amy snapped, "I earned it. Because in case you haven't figured it out yet, I told Gill _everything._ All the things we haven't told our allies," she ticked off the points on greasy fingers, "He knows how and when we're going to attack, he knows about these weapons... he knows..." her voice broke and the look on her face was pained as if she had just realized it, "He knows how we communicate and where we _are."_

Her eyes met 'Korid's then and she whispered, "Oh my God."

He sighed, folding his hands into the small of his back and rocking on his heels, "Most of those are things he would have known already anyway, Amy. You do not bear the responsibility alone."

She narrowed her eyes, looking at him with frosty suspicion, _This doesn't sound like Torsch 'Korid._

"Who are you?" Amy asked.

Torsch cocked his head.

"I mean," she went on, peering at him, "You _look_ like this Stealth Major I know."

He gave her a wan look, "Very amusing." He stepped over and used his foot to pull a stool from beneath the table next to her, "You should know, Daniel belaid your order for General 'Varlemai to interrogate Thomas Beauchaine. He felt it an... _excessive_ request."

Amy rubbed at her temples and sighed, then she motioned to the container sitting on the edge of the workbench and asked, "What is that, anyway?"

"It is food," he said, gesturing to the stool, "For you. Sit."

She stared at him.

_"Sit,"_ he said again, more forcefully.

She shook her head, "I don't want to _sit,"_ she went back to the weapon, "I need to work. I need to think, I need to figure out how to... how we're going to... how..."

Torsch waited as she fidgeted with parts, hands trembling.

"When is the last time you have eaten?" he asked.

She thought a moment, "Dinner. Yesterday."

"That is what I figured. Now, sit."

"I'm _fine,"_ she insisted, stepping away to rummage in a stack of discarded items overflowing a crate.

He sighed heavily. He had not wanted to resort to this but...

Torsch ambled around the forge, looking at the tools hanging on hooks, the shelves of assorted equipment, until he found what he was searching for, "Sergeant Starr, as I see it, you have two choices," he rumbled darkly, turning and strolling back toward her, hands behind his back.

She looked up at him, confusion and a touch of anger darkening her face, "Excuse me?"

"You will sit, and you will eat, or I will force you."

"You know," she said, crossing her arms and shifting her weight to one hip, "We have a saying, _in my culture."_

"Oh, do you now?" He asked off handedly, his tone bored and mockingly uninterrested, "And what would that be?"

"You can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink."

"I do not see how that applies."

"You can bring me _food_ but you can't make me _eat_ it," she smarted as he approached, his face a blank mask as he set a funnel on the bench.

"Would you care to wager on that?"

Amy set her mouth in an angry knot, "Are you _threatening_ me?"

"I absolutely am," he answered without pause.

She glared, "You wouldn't _dare_."

Torsch matched her pose, folding his arms and shifting his weight. They stared at one another for a few beats.

"Fine," Starr sighed with great drama, rolling her eyes.

She climbed onto the stool and he pushed the bowl directly in front of her.

When he lifted the lid, and the scent enveloped Amy's face, tickled her nose, and curled through her body with warm memories. It was the smell of cinnamon and sugar and buttermilk and oats.

_He remembered._

Amy bit her lip and stared into the bowl. She had been so busy feeling surly and sorry for herself that it caught her completely off guard.

"You did this?" she asked hoarsely.

"Ah, no," he said, pulling another stool from underneath the table and sitting next to her, "Culinary skill is outside the realm of my abilities. All I did was make a request." With that he presented her with a spoon.

She looked at it for a moment before taking it from him, "Why are you doing this?"

Amy knew _neither_ of them had been reasonable lately. Their differences and the sudden end of the brief affair had deteriorated into an immaturity which had made civilized interaction all but impossible. And, she knew, for all of 'Korid's many, _many _faults, the blame for that was also hers. Still... this was not at all like him. At. All.

"You did this for me once," Torsch said, hooking a foot on the rung of her stool, "You brought me food and forced me out of my personal hell when all I wanted to do was grieve. So, in a way, you started it."

Starr's face broke out in a genuine smile. It was such a kind gesture from such a patronizing swine that she couldn't help it. "I guess this makes us even," she said.

He hummed in response and they sat in companionable silence for a few moments.

"What, uh," Amy said, stirring her oatmeal, "Can I ask you something?"

He mandible-shrugged, "Certainly."

"What does _o'ani_ mean?"

'Korid drew his brow ridges together, mouth turning down at the corners in confused thought.

"It's what you called Eeth, when he came out of his... Battle Rage," she said softly.

Torsch straightened his neck, his head tilting slightly to one side, "I did?" He asked, more to himself.

He pondered this for a few moments then sniffed and scratched at a lower mandible, his expression conveying a touch of embarrassment, "It means _nephew. S_pecifically... _my_ nephew."

Amy watched him as he looked off at nothing in particular, then she said almost reverently, "Eeth is your nephew."

Torsch nodded slowly, turning and propping his elbows on the table top, "He is Nomi's thirdborn."

_That would make him Coh's brother_, Amy thought. Then she smiled, "I guess the Covenant doesn't have issues with nepotism."

Torsch chuckled.

An Elite's laugh was a strange sounding thing. Recognizable, for sure, but with no display of teeth, God forbid.

"Not so much," Torsch rumbled, "Sangheili social customs preclude that as an issue, and the Covenant gave our military a great deal of discretion. Eeth made it into Stealth Operations on his own merits, and was brought into the legion independant of my influence, even of Sicera... _Daniel_," Torsch sighed, "Even if Eeth was assigned under my command at least in part out of penance."

"Penance?"

"Mmm, Sicer... _Daniel_..." Torsch clenched his mandibles and shook his head, "My Legion Master, I believe as the years passed he came to see what it was he had stolen from me, even if he did not agree. I have to believe he put Eeth under my command because, after all those years, he at least _tried_ to understand. It was as much as he could give back to me. He was not a completely unreasonable man. At least, not _always."_

His eyes took on a far away look, as if he was remembering something from long ago.

"What happened?" Amy asked quietly in the lingering silence.

Torsch drew a breath. It had been a long time since he had thought about what had happened to him. What had been done to him and what he had done. For the first time in his life he found he actually wanted to talk about it. All of it, even the parts he had tried and failed to forget.

Fate, the gods, happenstance, whatever, had placed him with the one person in the galaxy he felt might actually understand. And he did owe her an explanation.

"J'zeri 'Berov happened," he murmured, "Sicera's Mistress."

Amy didn't pry, she sat there, nursing her oatmeal, and let him work it out on his own.

"It was quite the scandal, when he announced her at the coronation. Gods... that was _so_ long ago. She was his sister. Do not make that face, there was nothing incestuous between them."

He paused, thinking on that as if for the first time. Sicera 'Berovai had not been an especially _moral_ man...

"Well, there might have been," Torsch mumbled, blinking and shuttering at the thought before going on, "Either way, there was no doubt she would act in the best interests of Berov. When I was home... when I regained consciousness and word got to Sciera that I was not going to die, he sent for me. I did not want the Star of Apotheos. I did not want it because it meant I was to be a Swordsman. A noble." He shook his head, "I could never get married, not that women wanted me, but I was so angry that my friend would do that without consulting me. Without concern for what _I_ might have wanted. I had already decided I was going to Garen to teach the younglings. But, all Sicera could see was what it would mean for his bloodline, his State, to have me, a citizen of Berov, holding the commendation."

He paused for a moment then said, "He allowed me to refuse the title, to refuse the suffix. Oh, we argued about it and I thought it was his pride speaking, but all I did was play into_ her_ hands. I gave the ceremonial sword to my mother. It is probably on the mantle in the great room right now. She was angry. She could not believe I would _do_ such a thing. Why, did I not know what that meant for my breeding prospects? No woman could refuse me," he snorted, "That is not what I wanted either."

He folded his hands and propped his chin on his knuckles, "Of course, there was a huge, pompous ceremony in my honor. It was so very _Sicera_. That was the first time I had put on my armor," he drew a shaky breath, "And...it... _hurt_, so badly. My injuries were not fully healed and I did not know how I could make it through the ceremony much less the rest of my career with pain like that. It was so great that I vomited in a potted plant. Sicera assumed I had imbibed too much alcohol. But, J'zeri... she knew. And she knew how best to exploit it."

Torsch seemed to be lost in the memory, "She was wearing this dress, oh, gods help me, black and shimmery, split on both sides up to her hips so all the world could see her legs; open in the back all the way down to her tailbone. I had never seen such a thing. All the times I had seen her before she had been dressed in robes and... not at all like _that_."

He paused, giving Amy a sideways look as if he realized he had gotten sidetracked. She smiled and shook her hear ruefully. He could feel a blush burning across his face. 'Korid cleared his throat, "She found me, alone in the hall after the ceremony. And, she said she could make it stop." He clenched his mandibles, "She drugged me, Amy. I knew... but I... I just wanted it to _stop. _But I _never _wanted to... and by then it was too late... " he let out a breath, "For_ three_ days, I was kept drugged... so I could... with Sicera's harem... and the temple Priestesses... and his... Sicera's _daughters_. And when it was over I was so... I... Of course, Coh did not know then that I would not be going with her and her mother. When I returned home she was so happy to see me, but I was in withdrawal and hurting and I _yelled _at her. I made her cry and I just kept yelling at her. It was a week before my mind was right... and then I started to _remember _and... I _hurt _them. All I could remember was that they laughed at me, they were disgusted by my scars and mocked the way I look. They laughed at me and I... could not stop myself. I hurt them. They begged, and I just... hurt them."

Amy watched him as he thought. Then he said, "Had I been a noble she never would have dared. It would have been my right to refuse her. But, that was not the choice I made." He sighed wearily, "I fathered two more children afterwards. For my mother's sake. So she would have grandchildren of me she could see and touch. I courted one woman, twice. It was proper and... _functionally sufficient_. And after the second time I never attempted courtship again. I saw my sons once, when they were still boys, but years later, when I received word of Coh... part of me died with her. I knew then that I had nothing but to live with the decisions I had made. I could not go on looking back."

Amy sat in the silence which followed then said, "I guess that's what I've got to do, find a way to live with my part of messing this up."

That was not what he had meant. He wanted her to understand that he was not known for making good decisions. He had been wrong to be angry with her, to judge her based on the way he had been treated in the past. He wanted to apologize... but he could not find the right words.

"We will find a way, Amy," he said instead, "Besides, this is the Legion of Recompense and Sicera 'Bero..." he cleared his throat, _"Daniel_ we are talking about. We will think of something. Even if we have to dig our way under the damned city."

Amy blinked. She thougt for a moment then sat up and murmured, "Under the city."

Torsch nodded.

Starr turned to him and repeated, "Under the city."

His brow ridges furrowed, "Yes?"

Amy stood up on the wrung of her stool and grabbed his face, shouting, _"Under the city, Torsch!"_

"Well, _yes..."_ he started to say, but she leaned in and kissed him right on the mouth. Before his brain could catch up, she had pulled away, bounding off the stool and was gone.

He sat there for a stunned moment, trying to figure out what had just happened. Then he got up and chaised after her.

'Korid caught up to Amy as she rushed into the house and barged into the comms dining room. Daniel, Kote, Naaco, 'Caaln, and 'Varlemai were seated around the table with Yipip at the comms node. They all looked up as Amy stalked in breathlessly and reached across the table. She took a sheet of paper from in front of Daniel and flipped it over then snatched the pencil from his hand.

"The Alsace River is here, " she said as she started drawing, "North Entinne over here... New Saint Etienne here and the Governor's Mansion here. And, this is the Alsace Dam. We know that it's failed and the bridge is out." She paused to gulp air and Daniel leaned close and narrowed his eyes as she went on sketching and said, "But, there is a good chance at least one of the main diversion tunnels is intact. With the lake drained into the lower end of the cities, the opening will be well above the water table, which means the tunnels won't be flooded, at least not where we need them. Now, these were designed to carry water from the aquifer down to the major subduction juncture and that splits beneath New Saint Etienne into smaller tunnels for pipes and conduit and openings for overflow and back-flow resivoirs. Tunnels big enough for maintenance crews and equipment. And one of those tunnels has an access point right here." She scratched an x on the page,"That's a mile from the Governor's Mansion. Assuming the tunnels are structurally intact, that's how we surprise Ashmund. We go in _under_ the city."

She slapped the pencil down and stood back, panting for breath.

Daniel inspected the drawing, stroking his gnarled mandibles with equally gnarld fingers. Then, he swiveled his gaze to Amy and a vicious smile broke across his face.


	31. Chapter 31

**Author's Note: **Thanks to my reviewers: KATT9033, LittleVixen94, AlexCool, GuardianStarka, LyndaKey1, I shall wear midnight, and the anonymous Guest.

Well, here it is, finally. A little calm before the storm for everyone. It could have been shorter and I could have excluded some scenes, but, why do that when I've got a good thing going? Besides, you've all been patient and wonderful and beautiful.

Please forgive any typos. I have worked on this until I can't see straight. I'm sure I'll read it next week and want to cry, but for now, here it is.

**Warning: **Lemon.

And, a possible trigger warning for religious stuff. I kept that part short.

Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-One

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

The full drama of Ambrosia II's binary suns, the orange giant Hyperon and the red dwarf Theia, burned on the horizon. As afternoon draped her veil across the countryside the fading daylight cast its angular rays through the trees and formed deep shadows at the wood line in threat of the coming dark, still an hour away. With preparations for the morning's movement winding down, Cory Trice and Locket had stolen from the main bustle, walking hand-in-hand down one of the worn, rutted paths lined with weeping oaks which lead from the front of the complex and out to the forward roadblock.

For the most part it was quiet. The occasional perimeter patrol puttered in the distance while mourning hens intermittently filled the air with their soulful evening calls.

Cory and Locket drifted along trying to take hold of a reflective calm, both denying the unease which tempered excitement as day shifted into evening and thoughts inevitably drifted to what would happen at dawn. As they headed back their pace slowed more and more as they drew closer to the complex.

The day had been spent in preparation, readying vehicles and packing supplies. Soldiers and warriors and the few civilians who would be going along had been divided into attack groups. From there, personal armament, weapons, and vehicles had had a final inspection. Everyone who would be kicking off from the complex was issued additional weapons, ammunition, and food packs of flat breads and dried meats and cheeses. Water tankards and canteens were filled, fuel canisters topped off, and each member readied a small deployment bag to be stowed in one of the support vehicles along with extra munitions, water, and food. The fifteen complete prototype weapons, the Reapers, had been given Sergeant Starr's final seal of approval and released to select personnel.

There was little left but to catch a few final personal moments to get mentally ready.

"There had never really been a thought," Cory said in answer to Locket's question. He kicked at a clod of dirt in the middle of the path, "I mean, my dad had been in the Army, and his dad, and _his_ dad," Trice gave a one shoulder shrug, "My mom was pretty upset, but I guess she understood."

Locket walked next to him, doing her best to fight off the butterflies in her stomach. She let her eyes drift ahead of them to the Charentes Mountain Range peeping over the horizon in the far distance beyond the complex.

"Military Police," Cory laughed, trying to find something else to say in the awkward silence, "I was going to be pulling security on some rock somewhere." He turned and smiled at her, "Kinda' glad it turned out to be here, though. You know?"

Locket felt her cheeks redden, "Yeah," she said, worrying with a curl of hair and looking up at him as she nibbled at her lip, "Me too."

"So, uh..." Trice said, clearing his throat, "How did you wind up here?"

Locket puffed out a breath and thought for a moment, enjoying the feeling of her hand in his, "I came here under the UEG's Hardship Relocation Program," she began, casting him a smile, "I was born on Jericho VII. It fell when I was like, three. I remember it... I mean, I don't _remember _it," she shook her head,"I grew up on Centarus Alpha and when it was evacuated my parents took us, me and my three little brothers, to Earth. They hated it there. We hated it there. _I_ hated it there. As soon as I got into college I started hearing about the program, how evacuees were eligible to relocate to the outer colonies and attend colleges and trade schools there on the UEG's credits. So, I signed up. I shared a suite with Peach on the trip over. She was headed here for pretty much the same reason, only she had family waiting. They sort of claimed me as one of their own," she smiled to herself.

Cory watched from the corner of his eye as she combed her fingers through her hair and brushed the end of an orange curl against her full lips; down her chin, then back up.

He swallowed hard before asking, "Why do they call you _Locket_?"

She squinted, bunching up her freckled nose, "That was Peach's fault. Well, mine I guess. Because I kept telling her to lock the door to our suite. 'Make sure you lock it', 'Don't forget to lock it'. She started calling me Lock-it and it sort of stuck."

They shared a laugh then Cory asked, "So, what is your _real_ name?"

Locket rolled her eyes and paused, crossing her arms as he stopped and turned toward her in the middle of the road.

"You promise not to laugh?" she asked, eyes narrowed playfully.

"Oh, it can't be that ba..."

"_Whilhemena_," she interrupted.

His eyes went huge and he puffed out his cheeks as his face went red.

"Whilhemena Bethanna Kendricks. Don't you dare laugh."

He couldn't hold it in and she socked him in the arm.

"No, really," he said as he rubbed his bicep, "That's... _nice_."

Locket laughed with him, "It sounds like I'm ninety years old."

"Na," he said, working up the nerve to brush a thumb along her jaw.

A sadness moved in her eyes and Locket sniffed, stepping into him. Cory wrapped his arms around her and she lay her head against his chest.

"I'm gonna miss you," she said softly, like a breath, squeezing him and fighting the catch in her voice.

Cory smiled, angling his face toward hers, "I'll miss you, too," he said. Then, completely missing the moment he added chipperly, "But Sarge says the 'leets are thinkin' it won't take long on the front end. They say we'll hit the city hard and Daniel'll take out Ashmund and then we'll deal with the aftermath pretty hard. And, I'll be with Sarge most of the time, backing up Daniel's party so I won't be..."

"I'll _still_ miss you," Locket said, her brow furrowing as she nibbled at her lip and turned her face toward his.

Their noses brushed when he looked down and Cory smiled a toothy grin.

"Aren't you going to kiss me?" she asked.

In that moment the air between them thinned and when he timidly lowered his lips to hers she raised up eagerly to meet him. Cory reached to tangle a hand in her hair and Locket angled her face, their kiss deepening until they were both drowning in it.

Locket pulled away, still standing in the circle of his arms, tears shimmering in her eyes.

"Don't worry," he said, brushing a thumb along her jawline and pulling at a curl like a ringing a bell, "I'll be back before you know it."

She smiled, then nodded, resting her head against his chest and looking back toward the complex, "Yeah, I know," she said softly.

* * *

Dak 'Varlemai sat on the infirmary's front porch, doing his best to soak up the last rays of sunlight. Even after a full day of restful work he was still a bit sore. His wounds were far from being completely healed though his collapsed lung had righted itself and he had removed the drain in his chest that noon. His left heart was beating strong despite having been severely bruised.

Altogether he felt satisfactorily well.

All things considered, he counted himself fortunate. By all rights he should have been dead. If not from the wounds he had sustained then by his own hand. After returning his mapping device to the senior Sangheili of this place it would not have been unacceptable for him to have taken his own life. In fact, it was expected. He had lost a prisoner and those under his watch had been killed. But, Daniel, having assumed command, had instead suggested Dak find redemption in another manner.

Across the courtyard, Allison Winnefrid cinched the strap securing her small personal gear bag to the back of a truck. Inside were three sets of clean socks, a bra, a couple pair of underwear, a towel, a sliver of soap, and a few packs of wet-naps squirrelled away from a stash found in the refactory.

_The personal hygiene supplies of the forward deployed._

She tucked the extra length of the strap in a necktie knot and turned to see Dak where he sat.

To Allison he looked for all the world like a lizard sunning himself. Which was what she knew he was doing, taking full advantage of his mesothermic metabolism so he could expedite healing. Many hours of this, in conjunction with some sleep and eating something called _blood pudding_... which had turned out to be _exactly_ what it sounded like, seemed to have done him some good. All in all she knew he wasn't one to complain, unless, of course, there was _touching_ involved.

Still, he looked like hammered shit and Allison couldn't imagine him being combat ready in the next few hours. Not that anyone was going to argue with him. Dak had no intention of being out-hit-manned by a human, and getting in his way would most likely be bad for one's health. He had a grudge to settle. It was that simple. While the others took these remaining hours to get themselves ready for the attack on the city, 'Varlemai was preparing himself to lead an infiltration team out at dusk, to get forward intel before undertaking a one-man seek-and-destroy against Gilbert Dufraine.

_"You're it!"_

Allison turned to see a gaggle of children dashing from around one of the civilian dormitories.

Their laughter echoed up the courtyard and she watched as a handful of small kids dodged around the staged vehicles which sat in convoy lines down the wide lane. The game was complicated, or simplified, however one chose to look at it, by the bounding puppies eager to play as well. They gave the children away in all attempts to hide and off the group scattered toward the refactory with giggles and laughter.

The smallest child was left to lag behing, short legs marching along, working hard to carry him after the others. His dirty little face twisted up in frustration, a mop of blonde curls flopping over his brow as he stomped to a stop halfway between the vehicles and the buildings and crossed his arms petulantly over his chest, enveloping the stuffed toy he carried. A little bottom lip poked out as the boy scowled. Allison smiled, pausing when she turned to see Dak watching intently.

She couldn't know it, but the big Elite sat there recalling memories of his own brief childhood. Size had made him an outcast as well. He had been too large to be allowed with children his own age and those more his stature were already in childhood training. Left to spend most of his formative months in isolation, his verbal and social skills were stunted though his overall intelligence was unaffected. He could understand many languages, but because he knew even the speech of his mother tongue came out sounding immature and stupid he preferred to remain quiet and alone.

He was comfortable with solitude. His mother had died birthing his egg and he was all but abandoned by extended family to the communal rooms of an impoverished keep. There he had been left to himself like a bad omen then pushed into childhood training far too soon, quite possibly with the hopes he would not survive. But he had, and had been selected to train as a warrior-monk. To die, in a way, to be reborn as hell on earth. Dak had completed basic matrial schooling by age seven and earned a sword at the age of nine before going on to graduate first in his class from the prestigious Academy of War at Seona at the age of eleven. He had entered the Covenant before others had graduated from war college. Not yet legally an adult he had been an officer, and one of the fabled Sons of Damnation. Guardian of the Sacred Key. An assassin. An infiltrator. A heretic.

The boy took notice of Dak watching him and gave the giant Elite a tentative smile.

'Varlemai tried to smile back but with the damage to his face it came across as a leer. Still, the child hugged the stuffed toy to his chin and toddled over.

Allison drifted that way, watching as the boy approached and climbed the steps with difficulty. Winnefrid propped a shoulder against the corner of the infirmary building and watched the child crawl up into the huge Elite's lap without the slightest hint of fear.

'Varlemai looked down at the boy, clearly not sure what he should think of this. Allison caught herself holding her breath, knowing it was something of a social taboo for a child to approach an adult male in Sangheili society, let alone to _climb up in his lap_ like a beloved relative.

Dak simply sat there, the wheels in his brain obviously turning as his nostril slits flexed and he drew shallow breaths, looking down at this small human who was looking right back up at him.

The Elite sat still as a stone for the longest time then dropped his snout to the boy's mop of hair.

He breathed in the scent of dirty human child and heartrending memories swam through his head.

The boy, oblivious to the Elite's inner turmoil in only the way a child could be, shifted in Dak's lap and patted the stuffed dog against the under-side of 'Varlemai's one undamaged mandible, making happy little childish sounds.

The Elite straightened and the child continued on in his play, hopping the toy along the ridge of Dak's assault harness.

"What is dog's name?" the Elite rumbled gently, reaching to run a massive thumb across the toy's ragged head.

It was filthy. Missing an ear, fluff and stuffing poking from a tiny hole in its face where a button eye was absent.

The boy watched the Elite's face then looked at the toy thoughtfully, "His name, um, Puppy."

Dak stared at him for a moment before he said gravely, "Not good." He touched the spot in the stuffed animal's head where his ear was missing, the hole stitched shut rudely, "All dogs should have proper name."

The boy smiled like he had just learned a secret, "_You_ have dog with proplear name?"

"Yes," 'Varlemai smiled.

"A _real _dog?" the child prodded, eyes wide and trusting.

Dak nodded slowly, "Yes..."

"Sissy says 'm not big 'nuff to have _real_ doggy yet. They're big 'sponsibillily," and he was off, rattling all the reasons dogs were a big responsibility, "They eat lots and have to has fresh water evy-day, and puppies chew, chew up sissy's shoe, and then sometimes not go poopy on the paper," Winnefrid cupped a hand to her mouth and contained a laugh as 'Varlemai's eyes slowly widened as the child babbled on, "And cry at nights because scared to be 'lone in the cage, and have to haves a bafth when stinky. Stinky puppy outside rolling around in stinky things, and chase neighbor's kitty cats. No, no bad puppy," he wagged a little finger and scowled at the toy, then turned back to Dak, "And, and, and then have to learn to not go pee-pee on the carpets."

The boy nodded his head and looked up at the Elite as if he was expecting an amen.

Dak blinked. "Yes," he rumbled quizzically.

"What was you puppy's proplear name?"

The Elite smiled softly, "His proper name, _Esh'toel."_

The boy beamed.

"Reece! What are you _doing_?!"

Allison and 'Varlemai looked up and the child swiveled around to see an older teenage girl trotting toward the infirmary, her eyes huge. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry," she said, "He's never met a stranger."

"Sissy!" The child cried happily, leaping from Dak's lap and scampering to her.

Belying all Allison knew of their culture the big Elite said, "Is alright."

The girl flashed Dak a terrified smile and took the child's hand, tugging him along toward the human dormitories. "Come on, Reece, bath time," she said.

"Yeah, come on Esh-toe, time for bath," the boy said, holding his stuffed dog tight and marching along beside his sister. "Be a good puppy, now, Esh-toe, and get treats." Then he turned, twisting awkwardly and half dangling from his sister's hand as he waved to Dak from around the stuffed dog's neck, "Bye!"

Allison watched the two disappear between staged vehicles then looked to see 'Varlemai smiling, one huge hand raised, his fingers flexing up and down-up and down, mimicking the mechanical gesture of a wave.

Winnefrid straightened and sauntered over, parking her butt on the top step. _"Esh'toel?"_ she asked, one eye brow quirked.

'Varlemai hummed, "Means, One Speckle. Has on his face. Is good dog." He snorted to himself and nodded.

Allison thought for a second then squinted her eyes suspiciously, "_Wait_," she said, giving him a dubious look, "You mean to tell me, you had a dog named... _Spot_?"

Dak cocked his head and thought for a moment, "Is adequate translation."

* * *

Peach collapsed in a sweaty, boneless heap against Eeth's chest.

"Holy... _shit_," she panted, feeling her skin tingling and her body reeling.

Beneath her, Eeth lay stretched across one of the work tables which ran down the center of the forge, a mass of tools and assorted junk hastily shoved out of the way and half-scattered across the floor.

He heaved for breath, feeling her half-naked body against his, and hummed in response as she cuddled against his bare chest.

She tipped her face to him with a smile, "Fucking..._ wow_," she gulped.

He was completely winded and chuckled in between sucking air.

Peach puffed a breath and nestled her cheek against him, "That was _amazing_. Why haven't we been doing this all along?"

Eeth snorted and said amiably, "It turns out, you are not that easy."

Peach laughed, a little too loud, her body heaving against his in her merriment.

"To talk to," he growled.

They lay there intermittently laughing and catching their breath and Peach reached to traced the tender scar on Eeth's chest. It was the length of her outstretched hand, the skin thin and pale and dotted with the buds of newly forming scales. His hide twitched, the muscles beneath reacting to her touch.

"Does it hurt?" she asked quietly.

He shook his head. "No," he rumbled, tipping his gaze to her and reaching to comb back a strand of hair plastered to her face with sweat.

She smiled. "I can die a happy woman now," she purred, reaching with her lips and kissing his thumb, his palm, and then licking the length of a forefinger.

Eeth frowned.

"What?" Peach asked.

He murmured softly, "I wish you would reconsider going."

Peach drew her mouth into a grim line, "Eeth, don't..."

He puffed out a breath and dropped his head against the table top, speaking to the I-beam rafters, "I can not help it. It is no place for..."

"_Don't_ start that again," she snapped, pushing up to her knees and dismounting him, "Not now. I'll be fine, Eeth."

He sat up, watching as she turned her bare back to him and righted the skirt of a blue cotton dress dotted with tiny red and yellow flowers before slipping her arms through the top and doing up the buttons.

"I'm an adult, you know," she said, jerking at the fabric.

"I know. It is just..."

"Just _what_?" she said in exasperation, whirling, slapping her arms against her sides.

Eeth slipped from the edge of the table, catching his pants at his knees and pulling them up as he stood, "Just..." he mumbled, trying to find the words, "I do not... I would..." he growled in irritation.

"I'm not asking _you_ not to go," Peach spat.

"It is not the same."

"Why?"

"Because you are a _fema..."_ he stopped himself, this was precisely the argument he had been trying to avoid.

"And you got blown up just the other day."

"That is not relevant."

"Neither is my _gender_."

"Damnit all,_"_ he hissed. He did not want to spend the first evening, the last evening, possibly the _only_ evening they had together fighting, "I..." he stopped himself, took a deep breath, and started again, "I do not want to think of you being hurt."

"Then _don't_ think about it."

Eeth clamped his mandibles together tightly.

_Were it so easy._

"Look," Peach said, stepping close and brushing a hand against his cheek, "It'll be okay, but I've _got_ to do this. For Jordan, and Telam, for Phulu, and Smitty..."

Her words trailed off, but Eeth knew exactly what she was saying.

He sighed and snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her against him. He nuzzled her hair, her body molded against his, her skin tantalizingly close beneath the thin material of the dress. She brought her lips to his and when he shifted his mouth her lips parted in invitation. A predatory growl built in is chest when she forcefully slipped her tongue into his mouth and raked her nails against his still-bare chest.

He took a step into her with a groan, his hands traveling down her back to grip her backside. With their faces locked, Peach wrapped her arms around his neck and as he lifted her from her feet she wrapped her legs around him.

Eeth knocked over sundry equipment as he stumbled forward and reached with a hand, wading in blind lust toward a wall. Dusty hoses and lengths of metal pipe and fittings were sent hopping across the floor and Peach mumbled complaint when she felt the cold of an I-beam face bite into her back as she was pressed against it.

She tore her mouth away, pinned against the beam and a panting, _very_ aroused Elite.

"Really?" she asked, her eyes wide and playful as they flitted down to where his hips were smashed against hers. She could feel him raging and hard against her, again, already.

Eeth bunted her chin, lifting her face to give him access to her neck. He lapped at her skin while working his hands up her thighs and under her skirt, "Yes," he grumbled.

"Holy shit," she said moaned, "Not that I'm complaining but," she sighed, feeling him jerking at the waist of his pants, "But, I'm use to human guys and, uh, they need a bit more time to...um, _reload."_

"Mmmm... how very unfortunate for them."

* * *

The stone was simple, nothing more than a slab of silver granite quarried from the foot of the Charentes Mountains. It was smooth, having been drawn from a river bed long dry before the humans had re-formed the planet.

Kote ran his hand along the engraving etched in its surface.

_Patrichney "Penny" Larouche. Born September 19, 2526. Died January 3, 2553. At rest with her infant children, Abigail Shaere and Isabel Chaere 'Hakkamr._

"I worry for you."

Kote heard Grad-mama's words, spoken in French, and dropped his head.

The elderly woman stood for a few moments at the low picket gate in the evening shadow then stepped to his side and lowered herself to the dirt, taking a few moments to look over the stone.

She sighed.

Eleanora Larouche was eighty-seven years old. She had buried her husband, six children, fourteen grandchildren, and ten great-grandchildren. She had the peace of the elderly, the peace of knowing she would not long be parted from those she loved. She grieved their loss just as surely as others grieved their own losses. But, she was old, and she knew the length of time she had been granted to be with her loved ones was far greater than the time she had left to feel the emptiness of their absence.

"I have so few years to be apart from her, yet you have so many," she said.

'Hakkamr shook his head. He was fifty-three years old. Young for a Sangheili. He had, in the best of cases, a hundred and thirty, perhaps even a hundred and fifty years more in which to grieve.

"No," he rumbled softly, "I do not."

Grand-mama tisked and he shook his head the more vehemently. "I cannot, Grand-mama. I am sorry. I am uncertain if her God, if _your_ God will have me," Kote paused, looking at her with eyes full of misery, "or if He will grant me to be where she is when I die," he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, "I can imagine no greater paradise," a sad smile played at his mandibles as if he were allowing himself to entertain the hope. Just as quickly his expression grew grim and he went on, "but I would prefer the emptiness of the nothing which I fear awaits me than to spend even the short lifetime we could have had together without her."

Grand-mama sighed and reached to place a hand against his shoulder, "She loved you," the old woman said gently, "You know that?"

"Yes, and I... I love her," he added, his words thick and cracking.

Grand-mama nodded to herself, "I pray for you, that you find what it is you are looking for."

Kote nodded, "You have my gratitude," he reached and clasped his long Sangheili hand over her withered human one, "but realize you pray for another man's death."

She pursed her lips together, "Good," she said, "I will still pray."

Kote watched her face then let his eyes slip back to the stone and muttered darkly, "I will see Azrael Ashmund _die, _that is all I have left to live for."

* * *

"...this does not separate you from the riches of human love," Father Bradshaw said, "but is a means by which that love is taken up and fulfilled as a gift offered to the whole church and the known galaxy."

Sister Penelope stood before him at the altar. The small chapel was nearly full. Nuns who had journeyed from the neighboring monastery took up most of the room, filling three quarters of the pews. The ancient Abbess LeaAnna was in attendance, her withered and crooked body occupying a wheelchair which was parked to the side of the front row.

Gator and Foxy Lady were at the front on the isle side, along with Top Hat and several of the Freedom Guard Riders. On the opposite side before a sea of nuns in their maroon habits sat N'rule, Amy, and a few others.

Two nuns approached Sister Penelope and helped her as she exchanged her short wimple for one which was long, hanging half-way to her waist and trimmed in white.

Foxy Lady dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, and Gator plucked it from her hand to blot his own tears.

"As our young Sister prepares to make her reconfirmation to the faith," Father Bradshaw said, "I ask that N'rule 'Salak join us."

The Stealth Minor rose, his armor gleaming and polished, and moved to stand with his head bowed before the priest.

He was soon joined by the newly confirmed Sister and there were a few murmurs from the crowd as people looked on in confusion.

Father Bradshaw raised his arms for quiet and said, "It is our belief that none who come in all faithfulness, accepting and believing, having made confession for sins, will be turned away. I cannot believe the God of Mercy intended to exclude even one of His children," he looked at the Elite, whispering, "No, not one."

A hushed silence fell over the chapel when the priest addressed them, "Brother N'rule, Sister Penelope."

With heads bowed and eyes closed, the two peeked sideways at each other and smiled. Sister Penelope reached and N'rule took her hand.

"Do you reject Satan?" Father Bradshaw asked.

They answered in unison, "I do."

"And all his works?"

"I do."

"Do you believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of all the universe?"

"I do."

"Do you believe in Jesus Christ, his only begotten Son, our Lord, that He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit..."

The main chapel door creaked and Amy turned her head to see Torsch 'Korid step in and take up position beside it. He folded his arms and watched the proceedings with an expression carved from granite.

"...that He ascended into heaven and is at the right hand of the Father," Bradshaw said, "and that He will come again to judge the living and the dead?"

"I do," the two answered.

At last it was finished, and Father Bradshaw concluded with an amen, then sprinkled the two in turn with holy water.

When Amy rose and turned to look again, Torsch was gone.

* * *

The suns were set and the courtyard was dark before Daniel's day was even remotely over. There had been little time on this final day of preparations for meaningful rest.

Working with what Majors 'Korid and 'Hakkamr had already put in place for troops gathered at or near Cean and North Etienne, and the reinforcing groups they had sent to the complex, Daniel had taken to account their numbers, arms, positions, and Amy's revelation and set about organizing a viable plan and formal command structure. He was prepared to use every means necessary and available to their advantage.

Much to Stealth Major 'Korid's apparent irritation, he was unceremoniously notified that he was to serve as Daniel's Command Master. A decision Daniel made with due consideration. Grudgingly, 'Korid had relinquished his left shoulder pauldron, a show of formally submitting to the responsibilities commensurate with his new rank as Daniel's right hand. Chiefly, he would coordinate the attack with and through command staff in the field once active engagement commenced.

It was necessary. Daniel was a man who excelled at being unafraid of getting his hands dirty, and as such, he would _personally_ be leading the hunt for Azrael Ashmund.

In the field, Nosalstius 'Caaln would serve as one of three Sub-Commanders. These men had named those who had been appointed from their own forces as Field Master's, and these had in turn claimed their Generals and assigned from there warfare and battle groups based upon the overall plan of attack. Daniel neither cared nor took special note that there were those in this command structure who were human.

It was as it should be.

Special Operations General Dak 'Varlemai would lead a team ahead of the forward movement and infiltrate the city. Once Ashmund's location had been identified and the information forwarded to Daniel's team, the scouts would rendezvous with Daniel and the others while 'Varlemai stepped out from command functions, free to carry out his own deadly doings.

Remaining back at the complex, N'Rule 'Salak would be Commander at Arms for the duration of the engagement. The civilian humans trusted him above all others, mostly because the priestess women and the priest had accepted him as one of their own. N'Rule had immediately propositioned the human biker known as Gator to be his Sub-Commander. The man agreed, appointing Jesh 'Mortum and Alexander Lovelace as his contemporaries. They would remain in their current duties and functions.

Through the night and early into the morning, command staff had reworked their plan of attack, communicating with their near neighbors through the cobbled-together Covenant node, which they suspected of being compromised. They relayed information which held no additional details all while sending the true movements through the encrypted cartographic channel.

Cean had reported locating an able flyer, and while sifting through the mountain of notes and battle plans in the comms/dining room Daniel had discovered that North Etienne had at her disposal a hunting pair.

In exchange, schematics for the weapons Amy's team had developed had been shared with the allied cities via the encrypted relay with the hopes they could be put to some wider use even at this late hour.

Daniel had then spent the later parts of the day in assisting the troops and those others as they made ready for imminent battlefield action by securing gear, packing field bags, and loading and staging vehicles. In doing so, Daniel had spent a great amount of time walking among the people. The civilians regarded him with a fearful awe, and while he had never been in a situation to care what the general populous thought of him, he found himself making an effort to assuage their concerns. These were Lucinda's people and when he returned from making an appearance with the vanguard troops he found himself silently following her lead, if only to be in her presence and bask in her favor.

He had assisted in carrying supplies to a convoy of support vehicles and had shooed a group of small children along and out of the way of traffic. He had been left baffled by a small boy's insistence at being picked up, much to Torsch 'Korid's amusement.

Daniel had helped to fill ready supplies of water and secure reserves of fuel for the complex. He assisted in issuing weapons and ammunition and even personally ensured that of the thirteen people who decided to make good on their threats to leave that they did so with all of the belongings supported by Naaco's documentation. He also made sure they were given provisions in excess of what Amy had promised.

He had then reserved time specifically for Naaco, familiarizing the boy with an energy rifle and taking him out behind the forge for some targeting practice. The former slave proved to be a quick learner and an admirable shot and beamed with pride when Daniel scratched out the suggestion that he see to Lucinda's safety in Daniel's absence.

It was not until the day was near it's end that Daniel saw to important matters for himself, like procuring and readying his armor. After a brief meal with Lucinda, he went to the forge and made a few hasty modifications and adjustments to fit his whim. Naaco joined him there, slipping in and watching Daniel work, passing and fetching tools. Daniel had checked the blades of his primary weaponry, namely the machete and the hatchet, then visited the cache and selected a plasma sword and pistol from the remaining arms.

It was only after that that Daniel returned to the house, walking side by side with...

_My son_, Daniel thought, his hearts clenching as he watched Naaco disappear up the building's main staircase.

Shoving aside the emotions that thought set loose, Daniel made his way to the room he shared with Lucinda.

He was well accustomed to the demands of primary leadership and found he could effectively be a descent person about it, but at the end of it all he was selfish and he fully intended to be greedy with the remaining time he had to spend with her.

When he stepped through the door and deposited his bundle of armor just inside the threshold he found her standing at the mirror brushing her hair. She was a vision in yellow, the night dress hugging female curves in a demure way that made his knees weak.

From the mirror's reflection he saw her smile a sad smile in greeting and his hearts broke when he saw a tear slide down her cheek.

He had not known how she had held up as she had. The funerals for her father and uncles had brought not one tear, only the stoic look of emptiness and shock. Lucinda had already resigned herself to the death of her family and grieved it, only to have her father given back to her and taken away again. But now the tears came.

It was the first time Daniel had had time to feel regret at making the decision to assume command. He was doing this for her, but that meant that in the morning he would leave and they would be separated for an unknown length of time far exceeding any miniscule amount they had known thus far. As much as his mind reeled, his hearts ached because he knew, despite the pained smile on her face as he crossed the room, this would not be easy for her. But, she was trying to be strong.

He grieved for her. In the coming days he would have things which would occupy his time and thoughts. Though the days and possibly weeks or even months forward would likely proceed in a torrent for him, for her there would be only time until he returned or sent for her. Time to think. Time to wonder. Time to fear. Time to take in the gravity of what she had so recently lost.

And he would not be here for her.

This was the unspoken that had lingered between them all day.

Lucinda turned to him as he drew near and Daniel dropped to a knee. She came into his embrace and wrapped her arms around his neck and he held her close, reaching to brush her cheek with his thumb.

She was quiet for a long time, her body trembling intermittently against him, unable to keep the fear from spilling over. Then she said softly, her voice crackling, "It's n-not f-fair."

Her voice was so small and broken it cut him to the bone.

"It's all Ash-Ashmund's f-fault," she keened more fiercely, the horror of loss filling her words. "His fault for _everything."_

At this she broke down into unrestrained bawling, so much so Daniel feared her tears might choke her. It was a normal enough reaction and he did not try to stop it. Instead, he held her firmly and let the hysteria run its course.

Then she said, through sniffs and hiccups, "For Penny and her b-babies, and Uncle Ch-Charlie and Uncle La-ance and..." she whimpered, "And _Papa_."

She let out a long, desperate cry and Daniel felt the dormant hatred, the curling rage; the dark, sliding anger and mind bending vengeance tearing its way through him. It was wailing, screaming, demanding to be answered. He was reminded then why part of the cold thing he had been was awakened. It was an abyss he was running both from and toward because he loved her.

"He de-deserves to _die_," she said through gritted teeth and tears.

Daniel's chest tightened and he felt as if his hearts painfully pounded an extra beat at the sound of her voice. He had never heard that viciousness from her before and the weight of her words were a proclamation he had no choice but to obey. She shifted in his embrace and looked into his eyes, her jaw quivering and anger boiling in her eye like a storm cloud, "I want him to _die,"_ she seethed.

A part of her innocence expired right there before his eyes and he knew then what was required to put his crimes right and salvage what honor he had left.

_'By my blade, my love,' _he had signed.

* * *

It was long after midnight when Torsch 'Korid made his way from the basement showers up the stairs toward his quarters. The house was still and quite, lights drawn out in every room as the inhabitants slumbered.

All but Amy.

When Torsch stepped into the hall he could see light slanting from the thin wedge of her partially open doorway. He paused, but ultimately moved past without a glance and walked to his own closed door.

Behind him there was a rustle, and a crash, and the sound of items scattering.

"_Crap_," came Amy's response, followed by more colorful, muted expletives.

Shaking his head, 'Korid turned around, his feet _thump-thumping_ against the floor as he stepped to her door and peered within.

Amy was dressed as she had been that day, and as much as he would have preferred to be a gentleman, he found himself faced directly with her butt which was turned toward the door, breeches tight across her rear end as she bent at the waist amid dust motes. She was haplessly gathering things spilled across the walking path in her room, scooping items and throwing them into a tattered box.

Torsch cleared his throat and bumped his foot again the bottom of the door. As it yawned open Amy peered around an arm, still bent over, her head inverted and her hair hanging from a ponytail to brush the ground. She looked at him, then tossed an object into the box and rose. She toed shards of glass out of the path with her boot and set the box on top of a precarious and untrustworthy-looking stack.

"You should be sleeping," Torsch admonished lightly, adopting what he hoped was a neutral tone, casually leaning a shoulder against the door casing.

"I'm fine," she covered a yawn.

"_Um-hum_," he hummed.

Amy desperately _wanted_ rest. After only a few hours of sleep in the previous... fifty-six? Or was it eighty-four? She was feeling the strain. A satisfying day of gearing up the troops following a long night of planning with Daniel had left her tired and her nerves going a little off the rails. Still, sleep would not come to her.

So, Amy was busying herself in the last hours before troop movement going through the junk boxed up and almost overflowing her room, trying to consolidate some of it, keeping herself occupied.

Her back ached, and her eyes burned, and she stood there needing a shower. And there was Tosch 'Korid.

His armor had been swapped for the more casual dress of a dark undersuit over which he wore a pair of soft linen pants. Well groomed and smelling freshly bathed, standing there bare-footed, all six foot nine inches of him.

God, he looked good.

_Damnit, Amy,_ she silently chastened herself, _Stop it. You're tired. Just don't._

"What are you doing up so late, _Command Master_," she said lazily.

Torsch snorted and made a droll expression. He was still unhappy about that.

"I saw you tonight," Amy said softly, more seriously, "Thank you. It meant a lot to N'Rule."

'Korid clenched his mandibles and fidgeted, feeling awkward.

"He asked that I be there," he said simply. His voice was much cooler than he had intended. He did not want to come across as too hard on the matter, nor did he wish to convey some weakness.

In truth, he felt N'Rule had simply traded one set of fables for another, but he was not going to say that. The last thing he wanted on this night was to start a fight with her, for the tepid relationship they had managed to cultivate to devolve into sarcasm and arguing. While he knew Amy was not an overly religious person he suspected making light of N'Rule's personal decisions would bring out her female protective instincts. And, though she looked exhausted, Torsch was fairly certain she could still bring her verbal claws to bear.

He stood there looking at her, a weird heaviness settling into the air, a gigantic silence opening again between them, the musty smell of her room in his nose, "What is all of this?" he finally asked, shifting the topic to what he thought was more neutral territory. He gestured to the stacks and stacks, and stacks, of boxes filling her room.

Amy shrugged one shoulder self-consciously, "Just... _stuff_," she said, looking around at the collection.

'Korid shifted his feet and crossed his ankles, propping the toes of one foot against the opposite heel and the floor, "Such as?" he asked in his most conversational tone.

Starr shook her head, "One day," she tried, "No... well, yeah, _someday_ this will all be over," she said, "and I just want to think that we'll be able to look back and know it was real, you know? So we can show little kids who haven't even been born yet that this was real, we did this." She paused, knowing that didn't answer his question. "I guess I just hope that..." she sighed, "I hope I won't always be a soldier. When this is over, when the world isn't coming apart at the seams, I thought... Maybe one day I can be something else. I can preserve this and people will see this junk and remember what we did here, remember that it was important."

Torsch felt himself smile. "You wish to keep the people's record, Amy? To be their Historian?" he rumbled.

She shrugged again, "I guess. Is that what it's called, _in your culture?_"

'Korid tried to contain a wide, multi-jawed smile, "Yes, but,_ in my culture_, Historians preserve the record of... everything significant. Wars, treaties, proclamations, as well as artifacts of import. They maintain the Writs of Boundary and enforce respect of their ruler's lands, calling on the use of deadly force if necessary. _Your_ Historian and _my_ Historian are not interchangeable concepts," out sheer male cussedness he went on, "_In my culture_, it is not a position held by _females_."

Amy stood there looking at him for a moment, "Shocking," she groused, not amused.

He sighed, clenching his teeth, _Damnit_, "But, perhaps," he said evenly, drawing a breath, "Perhaps this world we are trying to create will favor a more _human_ view of history keeping."

Her heart bucked, _Was he deliberately trying to be nice to her again? _

"Maybe so," she smiled weakly.

'Korid watched her as she looked back at him. "Well," he said, straightening, before he could say something else and mess this up, "Good night, _Amy_."

She hated it when he said her name like that, with warmth and longing and,_ oh God_, how it made her think things better left unthought, especially at this juncture.

But, as she stood there alone in her room listening to his footsteps retreating, feeling like there was still so much to say, not ready for him to go just yet, a mild panic thrummed in her chest.

Amy crossed to the door and called out, "Torsch."

He paused, one hand on the door handle to his room and his back to her. He glanced at her and whispered, "_Yes, Amy_," in that voice like brushed velvet, full of sadness and everything there had once been between them. She felt a lump of cement form in her stomach, her heart galloping a hundred miles an hour, her better judgment nowhere to be found.

"Um," she croaked.

He turned and slowly walked back to her, "Is something wrong?" he asked gently.

She nodded, "Yeah, I... I, uh..."

It hit her then, a wave of fear she had held in check by keeping herself moving, staying busy with planning and plotting and getting ready, and all of those hours spent in the forge trying not to think about how much she missed him. But, now that was over, and all that was left was the time winding down before deployment to be filled with loneliness and the knowledge that she had no one. No one to miss her. No one to care. That's all she wanted, really: the comfort of someone familiar, to be there with her, to pretend she mattered to him.

"I don't," she tried, her voice feathery and uncertain.

She looked up, unable to meet his gaze, terrified of what she was about to say. Her hand drifted up and Amy was suddenly so shaken she could scarcely lift her arm without trembling. She saw her fingers brush against the collar of his bodysuit, focusing on the faint hexagonal pattern on the dark material, and managed to say, "I don't want to be alone tonight."

Her words were whisper-soft, and he stood there holding his breath, feeling the scoots on the back of his neck tightening as tingles raced down his spine. Unsure if he was imagining this or misunderstanding it, his hearts were suddenly pounding in the most unreasonable way. Torsch stood there for a full minute, his nerves on high alert. When he took a step back Amy's hand dropped from his chest and her face fell to the floor.

"What are you saying, Amy?" he asked, slowly letting go of the breath he had been holding.

She was the one person who had made his life bearable and he had lost her, _hurt_ her, but here she was saying these words and he could feel the gulf between them closing.

But, he did not want to misunderstand. There could be no presumption. "What do you want from me, Amy?" he murmured.

She shook her hear, her shoulders slouching. "I want," her voice broke and her breath quavered, but she managed to whisper, "_You._"

When she finally looked up at him 'Korid could see her heartache and misery, and he knew this was not real, but, _damnit_...

Seeing her like this, when her guard was completely down and she was so vulnerable, it made his hearts twist in his chest with some unidentifiable emotion. He stared at her and forced himself to think of what it would be like to walk away, to pretend this was not happening, imagining what it would feel like if he decided he would not let himself go down this road with her again.

It was like bleeding to death.

It was too late, the point of no return for his emotions had come and gone long ago. With her he had at one time had something he never imagined possible and he was no more able to refuse her than he was able to keep the suns from rising.

Gods help him. If this unreality was all they would ever have, he would take it, fool that he was. Though his feelings for her still felt abstract he could lie to himself, just for the night. He could pretend he had said all the right words, that he had known how to take it all back, and that she had forgiven him.

Yes, he could do that.

Torsch sought her hand with his and she took it. He turned and pulled her along behind him but when he reached his door and unlocked it he paused, looking back at her, head slightly tilted as he questioned her with his eyes.

_Are you sure this is what you want?_

Without a second thought, she stepped through into the darkness beyond and he followed. When he pulled the door closed behind him and locked it, there was no preliminary. They crashed into each other and staggered in a tight embrace, mouths wandering, searching; hands desperate to touch everywhere at once as they stumble-walked across the dark room in a lustful dance.

He groped her bruising-hard, working to pull her shirt free of her pants and slip his hands beneath the fabric. There was the soft, almost downy feel of her skin against his palms and the hitch in her breath as he wrapped his arms around her and lifted from the floor, crushing her body against his.

He claimed her lips with his mouth and she let him, because kissing him felt really good. So good she melted against him, forgetting why this would be so bad.

She kissed him back wildly, straining toward the awkward joining of facial disharmony which was comfortingly familiar, like remembering something she didn't know she had forgotten. When she tilted her head his eager tongue pushed into her mouth, his mandibles gliding against her face, inner teeth grating along her cheeks, suggesting what this would be like were they equipped the same.

A tiny cry was stifled in his mouth as Torsch worked his hands hard down her back, grasping her butt roughly before shoving her up against a wall.

Gods, he had missed her, missed _this_. The way her hands roved over his chest and neck as if she could not get enough. The feel of her flat fingernails raking against his bare hide, tugging at the fabric of his undersuit. The sounds she made against his mouth and the way her body trembled as she struggled for breath in consuming urgency. Her legs were hooked around his waist, leaving her pinioned to the wall by his hips and the evidence of his building desire.

She was all trembles and whimpers and the fragrance of a wanton woman. His mouth broke from hers, mandibles wandering nimbly across her face and down her neck.

Her body went involuntarily slack when he licked her throat and trailed saliva across the delicate skin with his raspy tongue. She could smell the undertone of his acrid, male-Sangheili scent and the sweet-oils of his shower; hear and feel his unrestrained purr, and the warmth of his attentive hands. When he bent to nip at her collar bone, she could feel his breath, heaving and heavy, savory against her flushed skin.

She whimpered his name.

He knew she liked it more severe than he wanted to prefer, and he had repeatedly, and at her insistence, been rough with her. It had always been rather exquisite despite his misgivings, but tonight there would be none. He would give her what she wanted without reservation, without her having to ask.

An uninhibited and virile growl built in his chest as he let his teeth grate against the skin at the base of her neck, so soft and fragile beneath the incising points. And then...

He bit her.

Amy let out a squealing yelp of surprise as her senses reeled and her reflexes recoiled.

He'd never done _that_ before.

It hadn't been hard enough to break the skin, and although it would probably leave a mark it was certainly nothing near what he was capable of, but it hadn't been gentle either. It _hurt _and Amy was yanked rudely from the foggy haze of sexual hunger. With him still crushed against her she tried to press herself further into the wall away from him, futile as it was.

"Easy," she said, the word breathless and trembly on her lips.

He froze, hearing the distress in her voice and aware of the way she was suddenly tensed against him.

"Not... like," she tried, her voice squelching.

Torsch lifted his face, his eyes searching hers.

What he saw looking back broke his hearts. She was fragile in a way he had never seen her, a broken mosaic. The pieces he had seen, her forward nature, the crudeness and vulgarity, her desire for him to be rough with her, it had been a cover for her own insecurities, a way to avoid rejection, a way not to admit her own feelings or have her broken spirit seen by another in those most vulnerable moments.

But now she was weak, and desperate with the desire to be wanted. To feel.

_Please, don't hurt me_, he saw her eyes begging him, _Not tonight. I could be dead this time tomorrow. Please... _

"Not... not like that," she finally managed to say, confirming his thoughts, leaning her face toward him almost timidly.

When her lips found his neck, he clamped his mandibles against a deep groan and let his head loll against her shoulder as he reached to brace his arms against the wall over her head. Her mouth traveled up his neck and she pressed her lips against his earbud and whispered, "Make love to me, Torsch."

The words sent a fiery, protective sensation up his spine and into his soul. He wanted to do more than that. He wanted to take hold of her and shake some sense into her, or lock her somewhere safe until it was over, anything but let her go in the morning.

But that was not up for negotiation and he knew it.

A helpless near-sob of frustration escaped him, but then her hands were sliding down and back up his chest, her fingers finding the zip at his throat and parting the undersuit, splitting it down the middle, shoving the material away from his scarred hide. He grumbled, thoughts forgotten, concerns abandoned, more important matters to address here and now. He wriggled to work a shoulder free and her mouth was suddenly on him again, her lips soft and hot against his skin as she patted them along the midline of his body, teasing the edge of bubbled scarring. His breath caught in his throat and his knees turned to jelly.

She felt his hands gentle, running down her body as if searching, caressing her with their warmth. The room spun as he stepped away from the wall and whirled around. Amy held on with her legs, latched to him as her hands half sought for purchase and half jerked to free the suit. Their mouths came together again and he took wobbly and uncoordinated steps until his legs gave way and they fell together in a panting heap into his bed.

He reared up on his knees to work his arms free and she followed, sitting to kiss and run her hands appreciatively across his wide, barred chest. In the moonlight which spilled through the window Amy could see the massive expanse of raised scarring, so familiar to her eyes and distinct from the rest of his hide. The keloidic tissue was shiny, strained and taut, and swollen along the lines of revision. Amy paused. The revisions were wider than she remembered; deeper, darker, the channeled flesh thin and freshly...

"Does it... bother you?" he asked, a tremor in his voice.

She looked up into his eyes and saw his trepidation, as if he would rather the earth open up and swallow him than suffer her judgment.

"Oh, Torsch," she said in a fluttery voice.

In his own words the scars were not dignified, and Amy realized then that was not because they were a sprawling mass of badly regenerated tissue. It was because what he had to do to himself, over and over again as the scars regenerated, was an affront in his culture.

He was a man who been blistered and half peeled alive, and his reward for living had been to be tricked and used and left to live with his scars.

Amy's heart shuttered. Never in her life had she felt like such a selfish shit.

He had hurt her, and she still didn't know what had set him off but she was sure she had hurt him somehow, too.

A pang of guilt cut through her and she wanted to ask him, but couldn't find the words. She wanted to tell him then that she loved him but she was afraid it would come across cheap and insincere. Instead she covered her mouth tightly with her hands to keep the words inside, tears welling up and breaking free from her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Torsch, I..." she said, the words rushed and muffled, her eyes still glued to lines of fresh scarring where he had had to cut himself to make his armor fit.

He shook his head, framing her face with his palms, _"Shhh,_ Amy."

He took hold of her wrists gently and pulled her hands away from her mouth before smothering her lips with his. As he trailed kisses, lapping his way down her jaw and her neck, he helped peel her from her clothing. She returned in kind, running her hands across the naked flesh of his stomach, feeling rippled abdominal muscles beneath the tough texture of his hide, brushing the dusting of pebbled, freckly scales just below the shallow indentation of his navel.

He pulled away just long enough to scramble from his garments, tossing the bodysuit and pants in an inverted and interlaced wad over a shoulder before collapsing atop her in a tangle of arms and legs. There was a pause when his wandering hands brushed the scar at her hip where she had been burned; and again when her hand found him, tight and thick.

She stroked him, slow and numbingly sensual, her thumb finding the slick of moisture at his tip. He groaned, clenching his teeth, trying to remain in control of himself, his breathing transitioning to shutters and quakes. He panted her name and lowered his hips, fighting off her touch.

She shifted beneath him and he entered her in careful increments, as if testing, asking permission.

Amy clutched at his shoulders, her breath leaving her as she arched into him from below, begging with her body for more.

He complied, bottoming out with a choking snarl before beginning to move inside of her with languid movements. He took up a slow tempo and she matched his pace, rocking her hips to make every movement full and deep.

He built her up, toward the height of that pinnacle she had only experienced with him. And then let her down, slowing his movements, drawing her away from that flaring coalescence of senses, enjoying the changing timbre of her breathing and the shivering of her needy body. He wanted to admit to her that he was hers, body and soul, every part of him for the rest of his life. The words were desperate to escape, but he could not bear the thought of them being discarded as said only in the heat of passion.

_Tomorrow_. He had convinced himself there would be a tomorrow. He would unburden his soul to her then, but tonight...

They moved in tandem, a mutual giving in abandon as the universe outside and everything there was other than the two of them faded from existence. There was only his voice, rough and jagged at the edges; and his body, attentive to hers and pushing her as she neared the edge. She felt him losing control, his restraint fading in and out of his grasp as his body trembled. He continued to speak his ragged words in her ear and Amy bit her lip, tasting copper, as her body responding with mounting pleasure, on the brink of soul-shattering eternity. The urgency in his voice was more than she could take and as her senses began to fragment into a tight, crashing wave of overwhelming, infinite brilliance she felt the throb of his release and they came together into that brief and raging oblivion.


	32. Chapter 32

**Author's Note: **I swear, I have been trying to get this story back down to more manageable 4,000-7,000 word chapters and thus the weekly updates. It hasn't happened yet.

Thank you to HatchetHaro, FluffyPandaBear, KATT9033, LyndaKey1, AlexCool, and GuardianStarka for the reviews.

A little lemony-ness to start the chapter, but not a true lemon (I don't think).

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Two

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

Torsch 'Korid's mind was turned to the sweltering bliss still consuming his tangled hearts. His body marshaled in response to the ghost of Amy's velvety skin against his and sent his senses singing. All of this, even as he was vaguely aware of a sharp bleeping sound intruding into the otherwise promising rapture. He was lost in the memories of their mutual pleasure, sharing the kind of raw weakness only another wounded soul could find shelter in; imagining he could see the full-color, neon and vivid fragments of eternity when he felt her come, his body desperate to follow.

He had to hold himself back in those moments in more ways than one, their bodies striving against one another for release. Torsch had wanted to talk some sense into her, unburden his soul if it meant she would stay, but he had fortunately been self-aware enough to know it was his hearts rather than his mind given to the inclination. It made sense for her to go. She knew the under-city, or at least its markings and could guide the team swiftly to their objective, rerouting should it be necessary. He did not have to like her going, and he did _not_. There was a feeling not unlike fear at the thought of her going so deeply into the enemy's territory, of her leaving the relative safety of the complex, and _his bed._

_Bleep_. _Bleep._

Torsch's mandibles twitched, and he ignored the meddlesome noise, snuggling deeper beneath the warm blankets where her scent invaded his nose. His hearts clenched, and he was tossed too and fro about his dreamy state. He remembered that he had considered waking this morning and confronting Daniel, supposing it were Lucida instead and calling the other man a hypocrite when he objected. But, that had been more of his hearts talking. Torch knew there was no comparison. Lucinda was not a soldier. Her parents may have been insurgents but it hardly required a remote acquaintance with the girl to know she was not cut from a warrior's cloth. Amy, on the other hand, was a soldier and one who even as a female had earned the respect of Sangheili warriors, which was no small compliment.

Instead, 'Korid felt himself put his lips close to her ear, her hair tickling his face, the musty smell of sweat soaked, ravished woman filling his brain with its intoxicant. He felt her body relax, as it had, warm and spent, as he began in his own abandon to murmur words he dared not speak in her native tongue. Not yet. He was not ready to make that confession where she would hear it and understand just yet, because with those words he surrendered, body and soul, admitting what he...

_Bleep. Bleep. Bleep._

'Korid's desire was checked as the insistent noise pulled at his mind and he began to surface grudgingly from the haze of sleep. With Amy's panting breath and the universe still whispering in his ears he growled, his brain full of moments which held the promise of forever in their sharp, soul-piercing clarity.

With a feline smile curling his mandibles Torsch reached through the blankets, intent on pulling her against him, feeling again those things his dreaming mind had conjured so vividly. As he waded through the tangle of her scent, his hearts, and the rest of him, quickened at a memory from the night before, of Amy's flushed face suddenly flaming in embarrassment as she lay trembling beneath him. He had nuzzled her neck, licked the salt-tinged sweat form her skin and told her how much he loved the way she smelled, the way she tasted.

Amy had covered her face with her hands, looking mortified, confessing embarrassment that she had not showered in over a daily cycle. He had not minded. But, it had given him an excuse to have her in the shower downstairs, her back pressed against the wall and the spray pelting his skin, streaming down his shoulders and back, water drumming the tiles noisily in sheets amid the sound of his feet seeking to maintain purchase as she scratched her nails across his chest. How he had prayed in those moments to whatever gods would hear him that he would have the resolve not to fall to his knees and beg her not to go in the morning. But, until then...

The infernal alarm bleated again and 'Korid sat up in his bed, tossing back the blankets and sheets, blinking into the darkness. He had told himself he would tell her tomorrow. _Today, _before the teams and soldiers deployed. He had designs of making passionate love to her again, and again, if necessary, and never once had the thought occurred to him that he would not find her beside him so that he could do so. She had always been there afterward, sleeping next to him even hours later when he woke, content to sleep or...

As he sat there foggy headed, his body still eager and inflamed, he felt almost anesthetized with a growing numbness, an emptiness as he sat alone in his bed. The realization that she had slipped off without him knowing, without letting him know, slowly galvanized in a prickling awareness. He sat there for long moments, the idea rolling around and around in his head that maybe it was all too late...

_Bleep. Bleep..._

'Korid snatched up the cartographer and flicked a toggle to deactivate the alarm. As he stood, the reality of the situation, of what it could mean, came together from odd angles of focus as his hearts refused to accept it.

He dressed, forgoing a morning shower which would have involved actual attention to bathing. Torsch collected up his weapons, securing them to his armor. He took a moment and stretched his shoulder, which was still sore, as it always was even days after having the scars revised. Without bothering to tidy his quarters he stepped out into the hall and made his way down the stairs.

All the way his sense of apprehension ebbed and flowed, from anger at himself for being so simple as to think Amy had a heart in her chest, to near panic at the idea that he might have unwittingly hurt her in his voracity to convince her with his body all of what he had refused in those moments to put into words she could understand.

The smell of coffee greeted him and there were abundant baskets and platters of food, sticky-cakes and fruits and smoked meats, waiting in the kitchen of the main house for its inhabitants. Having no appetite for food, but it being necessary, 'Korid mindlessly tossed a sweet-bun into his mouth, nearly choking on its sugariness. To compensate, he chomped a handful of seasoned venison strips and downed them with a mug of water. He just wanted to take the necessary calories and proteins in as fast as he could as he pushed through the door and made his way out into the courtyard.

* * *

**Township of Cean**

A single sickle moon hung low and hazy in the sky and light barely powdered the horizon where sunrise was beginning to burn off the night as Gregor McFee pulled his old truck into the dusty windswept lot of what was once Dean's Agricultural Aircraft Service.

The doors of the small hangar were open and as the truck's headlights swept by Gregor could see Bexter Dean, barely illuminated by a single industrial lamp as he stood atop a short ladder and peered from around the tail of a bright yellow Grumman-Shaw EagleCat AG3052 biplane. Bexter was holding a pneumatic driver in one hand, watching the arrivals without expression.

Gregor threw the truck in park and the young man descended the steps, setting the driver aside. A nearby air compressor kicked over and thrummed merrily, the noise bouncing around inside the hangar enough to make teeth rattle.

Bexter didn't seem to mind, he simply wiped his hands uselessly on a greasy cloth and moved to stand next to his plane as a guard dog would move to heel at its master's leg.

The boy was an odd duck. A little too tall to be a pilot, just like his father had been, with gangly features and big, crooked teeth which overfilled his mouth. He was the sole member of his family remaining. In his mid-twenties, he was a suicidally talented ag pilot, dressed in all black with exposed forearms crawling with an assortment of tattoos and a jewelry store of piercings in his face. Bexter's jet black hair was long and greasy and pulled back into a ponytail at his nape, the part down the middle of his head a stark blonde where his natural color had grown out in the previous months.

Gregor felt all of his nearly eighty years as he exited his truck and shuffled toward the hangar. He was a short, stocky, paunchy old man in overalls with thinning gray hair sprouting like wayward weeds from a shiny, mostly-bald head.

He had been the Chief of the Cean Township Volunteer Fire Department for nearly twenty-five years and had seen a lot of different folk, but approaching the eccentric, shy youth, Gregor looked across a gulf of generations at a young man he could not hope to understand. At least Dean did hard, honest work. Bexter's hands were calloused and stained. There was grime under his fingernails visible a mile away, and his knuckles were busted from turning wrenches. In this, Gregor felt he could be trusted, even if his taste in fashion and recent past seemed sketchy.

Bexter nodded once as the old man approached and his eyes flitted for a brief second to the Elite who strolled casually behind. There was a moment where no one spoke, waiting for the air compressor to cycle off.

When the equipment ceased hammering, "You will be ready to take to the air at dusk," the Elite said, not asking.

Bexter squinted and McFee shot a look back at the Elite.

The Spec Ops Minor shifted his feet and rumbled, "Apologies, Field Master."

"Bah!" McFee groused, "I done told you, you ain't got to be callin' me that."

The Elite bunched up his mandibles but before he could voice protest Gregor addressed the young Dean, "Looks like them chemicals you thought up is gonna' come in handy after all."

Grand understatement of the century, that.

What Dean had thought up, and subsequently created, was a mixture aircraft petrol, which he had in abundance, laced with an agricultural gelling agent, which he also had in abundance. Gregor couldn't begin to understand it, but the overall effect was to enhance the ignition sensitivity of the fuel without compromising the flow from the bird's hopper. The substance became impossibly sticky and increased in viscosity from a minimally thick liquid to a globulous gel the longer it was exposed to air. It could be transported and sprayed to the tune of five hundred total gallons and set fire with as little as a spark.

As of yet, no one had actually said the word _napam,_ but Gregor knew that was what it was.

Oh, it was illegal as hell for a civilian to possess and manufacture such a substance, once upon a time. But, now, all was fair, as they say.

It was clear Bexter was a genius who made his living fixing and flying ag planes. Gregor knew that the boy's father had always worried because the kid just couldn't fit in to traditional institutions of education. His mind didn't work that way. Which turned out to be just fine because what he had done and suggested made the folks in charge over at Saint Vincent's Orphanage really happy.

"Command wants you ready come evenin' or there abouts." Gregor went on, "Here," he reached into a coverall pocket and pulled out a small handheld radio, "S'only one of the two we got goin'. Single band, radio-to-radio so no chance of being heard outside us. This'away you ain't got to uproot to the FD and haul biscuits to get back in time and we don't have to intrude in on your place."

Bexter nodded and took the radio.

Gregor and the Elite stood in the awkward silence for only a few moments before Gregor waved a hand in unspoken indication for his acting General to take over.

"Our supplies were limited," the Elite said, "but we were able to locate sufficient materials. In the highly likely event that your primitive aircraft is taken down and you find yourself behind enemy lines, we wish for you to have this."

With that he removed a freakish sawed off shotgun from the magnetic clasps on a thigh and went through a few particulars. As he rumbled on Bexter stood there blinking, a smile slowly curling one side of his cracked lips.

The design had been conjured by some mad geniuses of engineering at the Saint Vincent's complex, people whose hands he'd like very much to shake. From what Dean heard the General saying, she was indiscriminate about her ammo and packed one hell of a fiery punch.

Bexter took the weapon and hefted it in his hands and his eyes twinkled with appreciation.

"They call it the Reaper," the Sangheili growled, "Take with you as many of them as you are able."

"You can change your mind," Gregor said in a grandfatherly tone.

Bexter met the old man's eyes and shook his head, his mouth a tight line of chapped lips.

The Elite gave an approving grunt and Gregor sighed, "Well, we'll be in touch then. God's speed, sonny."

* * *

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

Lucinda smiled at the modified Covenant pauldron in her hands, the alien alloy glistening in Spec Ops smoky black. It had been the shoulder piece of a General, with a decorative cap which had once swept up and back. The thick fin-like protrusion had been cut and sharpened into a spike which would rest menacingly on Daniel's right shoulder.

Across the convex surface of the main plating, painted in bright red with what she knew was an unsteady hand, the image of a lion resembling that which adorned the Deléon family crest stood with forepaws raised, mouth agape, and bifurcated tongue flicking from between fangs. There was a strange alien symbol painted in orange in the center of the lion's body.

Daniel watched her looking it over as he stood wearing nothing more than a groin plate in the center of the room, ready to dress by the light of a single lamp.

As her fingers played across the Scion's Rune, she asked quietly, "What does it mean?"

He stepped near and traced the words slowly against her arms, _'You are the Lady whose words are my authority.'_

With that he turned and stepped into his boots, one scarred foot and then the other, his weight triggering latches which secured the armor coverings to his feet. The Zealot class boots had been cut from their greaves, the sheath of alloy which protected the cannon bones and their tendons, leaving booties which supported and formed an armored shell over his feet up to his ankle-like fetlock joints.

Daniel alternated lifting his feet, testing the movements. The sabatons covering his toes which mimicked claws and the center spines which rode the split glinted in the lamplight from their sharpening.

When he turned, satisfied, Lucinda was hugging the shoulder armor against her chest, unspeakable emotions gleaming in her eye.

_She understood. _At least, as much as she was able.

Daniel had had the revelation just the night before.

It had happened in the forge, while making modification to his armor. Naaco had been sitting on a bench nearby watching intently, clearly fascinated that Daniel was proving so skilled at working metal and other artistic, seeming non-warriorly endeavors.

_"She will be your Mistress, now?" _Naaco had asked in Sangheili.

The words had given Daniel considerable pause, setting his eyes wide as his hands stilled over his work.

For several moments the scarred Elite had stood there like a statue, his eyes crawling across the pocket watch set nearby and the armor plate before him on the table, to the small paintbrush in his trembling hand. His gnarled mandibles had moved senselessly before he could finally manage to compose his face and set the tiny painting brush down before he turned and faced the boy.

It had been a legitimate query, looking at it from Naaco's perspective. Up until these past weeks all he had known of Daniel was Sicera 'Berovai. And as Kaidon and Legion Master _that man_ would certainly have been the type who would have undoubtedly taken numerous Mistresses should he have had more than one civil domain under his power. But, Sicera 'Berovai was dead, and he did not rule here. And, Daniel had no aspirations to.

His actions here were no longer for himself.

_'No.'_

He had lifted the chunk of soft soapstone which he had used to place cutting marks on the armor and had written the word in Sangheili on the top of the dusty work surface.

_'I am no one's Kaidon__,' _he had gone on in brief explanation.

And, Lucinda could never be, _would_ never be Daniel's _Mistress_.

Were it even in him, he had no right. He was without the legitimacy of clan name and had no life he could claim as his own. He had taken the name of her choosing. Who had existed in his flesh before the person of Daniel was moot. There was only Daniel now, and Daniel was driven by an affection which had raised him from death and walked the earth with an undercurrent of devotion so deep in was a percolating madness.

No. Lucinda was not, would _never be_ his _property_ to do his bidding as a Mistress was to a Kaidon.

She was...

_'_S_he is the Scion of the House of Del_é_on,' _he had written.

Naaco had cocked his head, his face drawn into a bright expression of bashful surprise.

It was an archaic title, one not used on the homeworld any longer, but one which persisted, in spite of accepted tradition, on colony worlds with limited populations; given to a female who found herself the surviving heir of her lineage, in tragedy the only able and rightful leader of her people.

_'She does not serve me. I serve _**her**_.' _

At the memory, a smile creased the scars on one side of Daniel's face as he stood in their room looking down at Lucinda. She ran a hand across the image painted in red which adorned the pauldron.

She was his purpose and what he felt for her made him a man far more dangerous than he had ever been before. He would wear the signal of his devotion to this human girl without reservation for all to see. The warriors would follow him because he had been their Legion Master, and they would respect her because she was his Scion.

Without exchange, Lucinda proceeded to help Daniel into what remained of his armor, of which he had selected little.

There was the towering and spiked pauldron for his right shoulder and its counterpart on the left, a simple spaulder, a standard shoulder cap. These were secured in place with leather straps in various widths and shades which buckled across his chest. They had been riveted and screwed to secure them to the pieces of alien plating. This was necessary as Daniel's armor was a permutation, not only of different configurations of suits, but because he had cut and altered the pieces according to his desires. He would wear no bodysuit, and like something out of antiquity his armor had to be secure by more classical and rudimentary methods.

There were brassarts for both upper arms and articulated coulters for his elbows, and a vembrace for his one forearm. The digits had been cut from a gauntlet. The rest of the armored glove provided support for his wrist and served as a brutal knuckle duster as well as protection for the top of what was left of his hand.

He would wear no helm, what with his head and face being so disfigured and his periphrial vision already partly compromised. Without an assault harness or chest rig his abdomen was bared. There were no further coverings for his legs and the appendages were naked from the edges of his groin plate to the top of his ankles. The total effect left him appearing more nude than covered. Which he was.

Pitted and pocked, welted and gnarled scars blazed all across his body and he had not one stitch of shame about it.

Daniel lifted the deep emerald doamir of the Legion Master's cloak and swirled it across his shoulders with the flick of his wrist in a practiced motion. Lucinda stepped close and embraced him tightly, but moved away before emotions could overwhelm her. She walked a full circle around him, neatening the cloak's folds and pleats. When she had completed her circuit she stopped facing him again, and reached to finger the cloak's worn throat catch before letting her palms run down and cross the leather straps crisscrossing his chest.

"I..." she tried, clamping her mouth shut against her lips, tears swimming in her eye.

_'You honor me,' _he signed, his hand drifting up to cup her cheek, a thumb catching the tear which fell from her eye.

"You'll come back?" she asked suddenly, voice quavering.

His expression softened further and a smile curled his mandibles, _'Of course. Or I will send for you when it is safe.'_

Daniel had no intention of this being an extended campaign. But, he and his men would fight for as long as it would take, alongside the very people they had underestimated and wronged. Whatever it took so Lucinda's people could sleep soundly in their beds at night.

"Lucinda?"

Naaco's soft voice broke in. He was standing timidly in the doorway, face to the floor respectfully as he held his hands behind his back.

Lucinda palmed her cheeks, sniffing as she worked to regain her cracked composure. She waved for Naaco to come in.

The boy stepped across the room carefully, big yellow eyes refusing eye contact, "I have this, for you," he said softly as he came to a stop before her, Daniel watching with silent interest as his son drew from around his back something wrapped in cloth.

"For me?" Lucinda asked, curious as she took the offering.

Naaco nodded, his shy smile barely contained as she unwrapped the cloth and drew it away, revealing the stunning workmanship.

It was a length of smooth, polished blonde oak, decorated from head to heel in intricate, alien carving. There were painstaking metallic inlays, veins of metal which swirled and looped amid ticks of dark and light where the wood had been seard and carefully carved to created the illusion of depth and shadow. Polished stones and twinkling pieces of glass in a rainbow shades were set artfully, and the whole piece was lacquered severely to a glass-like surface.

There was a balance, as if it were a weapon, but she set its heel against the floor, leaning on the sturdy, hard wood as if testing it. It proved to be just the right height.

Lucinda rocked back to balance herself and lifted the cane into her hands again. It was as if she could spend hours studying it and never grasp the detail.

"Where did you get this?" she asked.

Naaco squirmed a little where he stood and wrung his big hands before settling them behind his back, "I made it," he said to the floor, swallowing and risking a glance at Daniel.

The scarred Elite smiled and gave him an approving nod.

* * *

**City of North Etienne**

First Sergeant Richard Brickey made a tour through the North City Police Training Building.

It was located at the very edge of the incorporated city limits, so much so that the adjoining twenty acre firing range and thirty acre mounted patrol facilities were actually in the county. The training building was of low cinderblock construction, painted with blue and silver stripes around the base and under the gutters. On the flag pole out front the tattered colors of Ambrosia II fluttered alone in an evening breeze, the flag of the UEG long removed.

The people here knew they were on their own.

As he entered the main quad Brickey could hear low chatter of the men and women housed in the attached barracks.

There was a nervousness in the air. Remaining troops and reinforcements were rousting in anticipation of the first strike of active engagement. Before then there was plenty to do, but he knew the resistant forces were just about to look the battle for New Saint Etienne in the eye. And, they knew it also.

Richard Brickey strolled into the open main training room where there were erected numerous folding tables. An assortment of leftover parts littered what was once three assembly lines of activity: two for disassembling which converged into one for assembling the unlikely pairing of parts. Along a wall lined up in a neat row were twenty-five monstrosities, half with intact barrels and the other half cut short.

Reapers which had been hastily assembled the night before and would be handed out before kick-off.

Brickey made a slow walk-around of the room looking the weaponry over without touching. Satisfied, he made his way out and stood beneath the flagpole. He looked across the two lanes of County Line Road and directly at the North Caddo Parish Sheriff's Training Unit.

Recruits from the neighboring agencies academies could literally have thrown rocks and hit one another.

The county department's buildings and grounds had been generally taken over by Elites, although at this stage there were few who cared to institute a segregation. They had in common a determination to survive against and enemy who wanted to see them all dead and the populous enslaved.

Those who had fought and gained majority control of North Etienne were both human and Sangheili, with a few Unggoy and Kig-Yar in attendance. Aside from her neighbor to the south, the city boasted the greatest number of inhabitants: soldiers, law enforcement, many tens of thousands of Elites and other sympathizers who had converged and aided the humans as instructed, and many thousands of civilians who had taken up arms. Several contingents of these fighters had already been deployed in preparation for the coming battle. Still, the houses and inhabitable structures in and around what had become North E's base of operation were crawling with people itching for action.

Brickey lifted his head and filled his lungs with brisk morning air, and immediately regretted it. In this air it was a mistake. The general funk which lingered this far out into the county courtesy of winds off the ocean bringing the putrid scent of the festering and flooded inner city miles away mingling with the olfactory evidence of insufficient sanitation was nauseating.

Amazingly, it was easier to let himself think of that and the difficulties it meant for the months moving forward than to ponder the immediate wartime nightmare ahead.

Communication was going to be burdensome at best and Brickey hated to think about it. It was one thing to have regular contact with friendlies over a period of weeks, spending the night sharing secrets, feeding the enemy misleading information and half-truths with a hotwired Covenant node, but entirely another to run a war in the absence of a true battle net. Because the Sangheili and smaller aliens who remained loyal to them had removed the comms systems once integrated in their armor, they could only communicate helm-to-helm with a basic relay system over short distances. The encrypted channel they used to communicate between mapping transmitters would have to be sufficient for longer-range communication. It was not ideal, and Brickey felt like he had stepped off into the stone age.

With a sigh the grizzled First Sergeant ambled off with one last detail to see to.

He plodded through the calf-deep grass and found a trampled path which lead to the mounted patrol barn. As he rounded the corner to the building's front Brickey's heart leapt into his throat.

Sitting just outside the open breezeway were what the Elites considered dogs.

A hunting pair to be more exact. A male and a female of, supposedly, impeccable pedigree and training.

Richard swallowed. He liked dogs as a rule, but the things which sat like gargoyles flanking the opening were horrifying. They were the size of ponies. With the male slightly larger than the female they were each near three and half feet at the shoulder easily, and two, maybe even three hundred pounds of rippling muscle each. They resembled Greyhounds, with long, slim bodies and deceptively delicate limbs. They looked like they were made out of whipcord, and Brickey knew they could move like their legs were loaded with springs.

Each had small, pointed ears sticking up from an elongated head and a skinny whip-like tail tucked neatly along a flank.

Their fur was a muted brindle color with a pattern of pale tiger stripes. The coats were short and slick and thinned to the bumpy texture of alligator at the points. Despite being canid in general shape, that was where the similarities to Earth-dogs ended.

Their long snouts were two thirds teeth. Virtually non-existent lips gave them the look of maws perpetually skinned back in a snarl, grinning a Cheshire Cat leer as row upon conveyered row of serrated, triangular, shark-like teeth stuck out in all directions.

Richard had been told their lower jaws could disarticulate like a snake's.

He could have lived without that particular detail slipping into his head right then as the creatures' only acknowledgement of him was unnervingly black, seemingly pupilless eyes which followed him in tandem as he moved.

Even from what he hoped was a safe distance he could smell their carnivore reek, a gagging-strong stench which was a mixture of wet dog and heated reptile with undertones of carrion.

Brickey cleared his throat loudly and as he heard movement from the depths of the barn he mistakenly tried to be friendly.

He made a few kissing sounds toward the nearest dog, "Hey there, pooch-pooch."

Its response was to lay its ears flat against its skull. Nostril slits like gills winked from below its eyes as it drew a breath and soundlessly set that tableau of a mouth partly ajar, looking as inviting as a basket full of scorpions.

Brickey took a large step away and breathed a sigh of relief as he saw an Elite shuffling near.

It was Antho 'Sesson, a Special Operations Minor who had served in the unenviable position as the legion's Agricultural Specialist. This position, usually filled by Unggoy, was something of a punishment for improper conduct while on leave, intended to either shame the soldier into conforming to expected standards or encouraging him to take his own life because he couldn't.

Or so the other Elites had grumbled, clearly inclined toward the latter.

According to these same Sangheili, 'Sesson was a compete incompetent, inept as a warrior and disgusting. There had been grumblings that if the Elite in question came near enough the others would strip him down and throw him into a pool of water just to cut back his bodily smell.

Somehow, Brickey kind of felt sorry for the guy.

In spite of his general offensive aroma and questionable soldierly skill, Antho _had_ managed to make it to an escape pod with the dogs and survived the ride to the surface. He had subsisted pretty much alone for over two months, until a recon group had found him just the week before while scouting around the downed agricultural ship _Eternal Reaping_. Though they had not been happy to have Antho follow them back, an opinion they voiced loudly and often, those dogs hadn't exactly invited an argument.

To his credit, the shunned Elite knew he was a social leper. As such, he kept to a place which left him safe from the threat of violence and a forced bath and was probably at least somewhat familiar: the barn.

As Antho emerged, Brickey could tell he was, as usual, dirty. _Filthy_. And stinking. The smell of livestock and manure, an ammonia pungency and the general funk of Elite uncleanliness wafted from him in a thick rankness that made Birckey's eyes water.

'Sesson was the picture of a soldier who failed daily to live up to any standards of military kemptness and was tired of trying. He was a hot-fucking-mess. The skin across his hands and neck and face was dull and flaking, stained and unwashed. What armor he we wore was covered in muck and dirt, scuffed and ill-fitting across a thick middle. A roll of fat partially held in by a too-tight bodysuit was trying to lap over the plate at his groin. Puddle-brown eyes were vacant, tired, in a face that hung slack like a man who had suffered and grieved his ineptitude until he was stuck in a stupor. Everything about him silently begged to be put out of his misery.

Richard heaved a sigh. He was quite familiar with the concept of Failure to Adapt, and he knew what it could do to those who were just not soldier material no matter how hard they tried or how much punishment was meted out. And, it seemed it was not just a human condition.

Antho shuffled forward, watching his feet as he went like he might forget how to work them and fall on his face. When he glanced up he reflexively moved to attention at the sight of Brickey and brought one balled fist to his chest, "General," he half-barked half-yelped like an automaton.

"Oh, Goddamnit," Brickey growled, "Get your damned hand down."

The Elite did as he was told, eyes glazed over but at least looking in Brickey's direction.

Richard shook his head and pulled a cartographer from his pants pocket, hoping to God this fool knew how to make use of it. "Here," Brickey grumbled, "You'll be needing this."

* * *

**Saint Vincent's Orphanage**

As the suns began to tease the horizon, Amy Starr stood downing the last of her third cup of the thickest, bitterest coffee she had ever made. She had been up, showered, dressed, and armed long before dawn, and had spent the hours in between trying not to let herself think.

She hadn't dreamed of her mother and the monster the woman had married but maybe a handful of times in over a decade. And it was the memory of Todd's face that had startled her awake that morning and lingered in the back of her mind like a brand on her soul.

Upon waking, it had taken several long moments, laying there in the dark, for her heart rate to fall back to something near normal. It had left her feeling dizzy and disoriented as the room had slowly rotated around her. Only when the pain in her chest had become a dull ache and the adrenalin rush of pure terror subsided, had fragments of reality begun to speak to her.

This had made her pulse quicken again, with a sickening feeling crawling through her guts as the weight of disappointment had sagged over her body and smothered her like a cold, wet blanket. She had drawn painful, confused breaths. Every fiber of her body screamed for more oxygen but her mind had told her to keep as quiet as possible. A cold sweat had drenched her body, and the only relief was seeing from the corner of her eye the slow, rhythmic heaving of Korid's back telling her he was sleeping soundly.

She had managed to slip from the bed, dragging herself across the floor on hands and knees like a wounded animal, before rising with the assistance of the wall. Her legs had shook violently, and her stomach had twisted as she felt its acid threatening to rise. Slipping along the wall she had found the door knob to effect a silent escape while Torsch had lay there peacefully sleeping, face down, limbs casually asprawl.

Pulling the door closed behind her as carefully as possible, Amy ran, with heart hammering anew and body trembling as if fleeing the scene of a murder, her own murder. She had tried to leave behind the shame of betraying herself out of loneliness but it had followed her. By the time she made it to the hall bathroom, the carefully constructed wall of control Starr had been holding together around herself had crumbled. She had rushed in, bypassing the toilet, and threw up into the bathtub before collapsing to the floor. She had twisted the knobs with a blind, desperate hand, the surge of water rumbling the wall as the brass pipes squalled with the hydraulic shock of hot water and drowned out the sound of her retching.

Shaking off the memory, Amy carefully slinked about the waiting motorcade. Her heart was filled with lingering bruises in the aftermath of the kind of dread the memory of her mother and Todd never failed to invoke. With that familiar gut twisting fear and revulsion, in the dawning light of morning, Amy was left haunted and disgusted, her mind accusing and her spirit in tatters.

When it had come down to it, she had done just what her mother had done. She had turned to a man she knew didn't love her for comfort. Just a pathetic, weak woman, using and letting herself be used to escape being alone. She was deeply disappointed in herself. She wasn't the kind of woman she thought she was. She felt dirty thinking about it, reliving the shame of waking and realizing what she had done and _why_.

All around her the complex was about its work. People crowded in, busy with good-byes as the troops made last minute adjustments and revved one another up. There was an electric hum in the air, the kind that set nerves tittering with the promise of imminent action. Human soldiers and Sangheili warriors were on that razor's edge of excitement, ready to be free of the fatigue of boredom and inactivity and seemingly endless waiting.

The electric mix of somber tension and excited anticipation around her was thick enough to cut with a knife, but Amy just wanted to get moving, before _he_ could manage to find her in the bustle.

Amy didn't blame Torsch, but the sight of him, the mere thought of his voice threatened to bring down piece by peace the tenuous wall of emotional control she had managed to salvage. She felt broken, shattered by the realization that she could so easily be the kind of woman she had for so long loathed.

When Amy had finally cleaned up her mess earlier that morning and crawled beneath the boiling shower's spray, sliding like a half-cooked noodle of self-reproach and despair into the tub, she had allowed herself to fall apart. And, that was it. She wouldn't do it again. A half-hour of uncontrollable crying and unrestrained self-condemnation was all she had time for. After that, she had gotten up and tried to scrub the dirty feeling from her skin, all while the memory of a few of the nocturnal activities of the night and early morning had replayed through her mind unwanted and absent her control.

Her lips had been swollen from his kisses, her mouth rasped nearly raw from his sandy tongue. Her body had ached, her hips feeling bruised even though she knew he had exercised restraint in his ardent passion.

Amy had hastily exited the shower and slunk to her room, knowing escape was only going to be possible in taking action.

She hugged herself now, wishing to God they could just get moving already, unconsciously pressing her fingers against the ugly bruise on her neck just to feel physical pain, something that made sense.

Amy had caught a glimpse of it in the hall mirror. The mark on her neck was like a malformed starburst reminding her of what she had done. Accusing. She had turned up the collar of her uniform blouse angrily and stormed from the house to find something to do other than hate herself, but that too had followed.

From where she stood, hiding in a courtyard full of people, Amy could see Torsch 'Korid across the complex, standing just before an ally-way created by the adjacent side-walls of the southern dormitories.

She wanted him to just stay over there.

She had seen him an hour before when he had appeared from the main house, face like a thundercloud, green and purple eyes darting about like threatening lightening, searching for _her_.

Fortunately, from the moment he had stepped outside he had been kept busy with Command Master functions as warriors and soldiers vied for his audience. Amy had kept a careful eye on him, making sure to keep at least half a breadth of the courtyard and numerous soldiers, warriors, and milling civilians between them for cover.

"But, this is _our_ home, we have more right to go than any of _you_ do," Zeke Tibbidoux protested loudly, with all the venom of his teenage years. Even form the distance, Amy could hear him, and a few others turned to watch and listen with guarded expressions.

Aaron Fitzgerald stood at his friend's side, looking anxious and embarrassed, sullen but resigned.

Though both youths were nearing sixteen, and at that age thought they were grown men and should be allowed to go with the battle group and fight to free their city, the Elites were standing firm. No doubt on the boys' journey here with 'Korid and Grand-mama over a month ago they had seen and endured and possibly done things no child should have to, teenager or not. Amy had no doubt that 'Korid had educated them well as best he could at the time, and she knew the boys had a respectful affection for Torsch because of it, but in the eyes of human society they were children, and the Sangheili were going to honor that.

"Your place is here, not on the field of battle," 'Korid said, taking a knee, "There is enough to be done of which you are capable to keep this place secure."

"So that's it?" Zeke snapped, "You won't let us go because we need to stay back and guard the fort?"

Aaron just stood there looking at his shoes.

"There will come a time..."

"When all the fighting is _over_," Zeke interrupted, "What about all that stuff you taught us? What you said before? That we're growing into men, that you're proud of us like you are your own sons. That we'll be warriors and have to fight someday. And _now_ we're not good enough?"

"That is not..."

"You're going to make _history_, and we're going to miss the fun stuff..."

"_Fun_?" Torsch growled, "That is precisely why the two of you _will **not**_ be part of this. You are not mature enough to appreciate..."

"We're not _children _either!"

'Korid sighed and bowed his head, collecting his thoughts. When he looked back up at them he placed a hand on each of the boy's shoulders. Zeke shrugged off the touch, taking a step back and tightening his hands into fists. Aaron simply stood there looking like he wanted to shrink into the dirt.

"That is precisely what you are and as Command Master of this battle," Torsch said, as gently as possible, "the answer is _no_."

Zeke's face wadded up in a scowl and he turned and stormed away muttering angrily, leaving Aaron standing with Torsch's hand still on his shoulder.

"We just want to be a part of this," Fitzgerald muttered.

"You are," 'Korid said, giving the boy's shoulder a pat, "And some day you will both make fine warriors. Warriors this planet will need to maintain a peaceable existence."

"But, not today."

Torsch nodded, "Not today."

Amy watched as 'Korid balled a fist and tapped it to his chest. Aaron slowly returned the gesture, earning him another pat on the shoulder as Torsch climbed to his feet.

The people who had been watching and listening seemed satisfied and went back about their business.

Starr hadn't realized she had drifted so near, curiosity getting the better of caution as nosiness at what was being said had drowned out her inner voice of self hatred for a few moments. When Aaron began to shuffle away and 'Korid turned, scanning the crowd winding about the motorcade, Amy's heart skipped in her chest and she backed away, hoping his gaze would not find her in the throng.

It did, and for a moment Amy felt like a rabbit caught in a snare. She pinned him with her eyes, hoping to freeze him in place, humiliation and shame washing across her body in waves as heat and cold chased one another making her knees shiver and the coffee in her stomach threaten to revisit.

Around her the crowd stirred and people turned, silence descending across the complex as Daniel and Lucinda stepped from the house. Torsch turned to look and Amy had darted away. When he gaze returned to where she had been she was gone.

Amy wove her way through the mass of bodies and vehicles, focused on putting as much distance between herself and Torsch 'Korid as she could. She made it to where the rest of Daniel's team waited near the rear of the Saint Vincent's convoy. Eeth 'Garen and Kote 'Hakkamr, and all of the Elites let out a thunderous bark of approval, joined by noise from people all across the complex in a chorus. Allison Winnefrid and Cory Trice joined in, howling and growling as the crowd broke out in a rancorous call when Daniel began down the steps, pausing to turn and brush Lucinda's cheek.

Starr jerked open the passenger door of a truck and...

"Amy."

Torsch's rumbling baritone grated against her raw emotions like nails on a chalkboard and turned her insides to icewater.

"I wish to speak with you..."

"_Don't_." She heard herself snap sharply, cutting him off before he could say more.

Her body had gone involuntarily rigid and she gripped the door handle hard enough to make the skin of her fingers sting. It hurt to turn and face him. She could barely stand the sight of him because of what it made her feel, made her remember.

'Korid's steps faltered to a stop and his expression flared in a hot surge of anger for a split second, cycling through many emotions before he drew himself up to his full height. His face conveyed caution before settling on a vacant stare. Emotionless as if he knew what was coming.

"Just... _don't_," Amy said, furious at the quaver in her voice. She forced an insincere smile, not meeting his eyes, looking instead at something beyond his right shoulder, "You don't have to say anything. Lets not pretend it was something that it wasn't, okay?" She could feel her eyes burning with humiliation, with shame and regret at having been so weak.

He just stood there, the little muscle in his lower right mandible flexing. When he spoke his voice was weary, his bruised pride poorly concealed, "Amy..."

"No," she snapped, whirling her back to him and pretending to be busy with something in the truck as the crowd around them shifted. The sounds of troops mounting up clamored around them. Suspensions creaked and trucks fired up and doors slammed.

"It was fun, Torsch," she said, trying to sound flippant, cringing at the pain in her voice, "But we both know it didn't mean anything. It was just..."

_...fucking. _

She let the last word go unsaid but they both heard it just the same.

Amy felt him staring at her back and heard him draw a breath, "If that is what you want, _Amy_."

She hated herself even more in that moment as her heart broke all over again and a tear slid down her face.

If he thought that was what she wanted then he was out of his freckled head.

What she wanted was for him to tell her she was wrong, that it _had_ meant something. She wanted him to give her some hope that she wasn't all the things she thought of herself, that at least he didn't see her the way _she_ saw her. She wanted him to grab her and hold her and chaise away the hollow brokenness she felt inside. She wanted him to argue, to fight _for_ her, just once. More than that, she wanted him to help her fight herself.

But, he didn't. He simply heaved a sigh and quietly walked away.


	33. Chapter 33

**Author's Note: **I think I've finally gotten the rest of this story sorted out. I hope.

Thank you to KATT9033, the anonymous Guest, LindaKey1, GuardianStarka, Didd23, and FluffyPandaBear for the reviews. I am humbled beyond words for your continued support.

I have gone through and fixed typos and inconsistencies. I am happy to report that there were few. The only thing I added was a brief explanation of the comms situation, as I didn't explain that in detail like I needed to for the up-coming scenes (though I do explain it a bit here as well). For brevity (and so we're all on the same page here) they are using the comms nodes and cartographers to communicate long-distance because the Elites removed the major comms systems integrated in their helms to keep from being tracked, BUT they can still communicate system-to-system over very short distances (think walky-talky) and the systems can be (and have been) manually synched to the cartographer.

I know, clear as mud. But, it makes sense on my head. K? K.

Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Three

**New Saint Etienne; Governor's Mansion**

Sonja Camlo stormed into the master's drawing room without knocking and snarled, "They're up to something."

Azrael Ashmund's features tightened involuntarily at the intrusion. He watched from an overstuffed wing-backed chair in the sitting area with narrowed, hawkish eyes as the uninvited woman crossed the opulent parlor.

From the room's eastern-facing French doors Ashmund anticipated a beatific display of the city at sunset, a place decimated and in the throws of rebuilding. He had hoped to enjoy it _alone_.

It was a thing which had to be seen to be believed and he was quite pleased.

Fort Champlain was in ruins to the west and the city itself was a sprawl of partially bombed out buildings. Streets raked with plasma fire were crumbling or cratered. Whole blocks of asphalt had been boiled and the architecture damaged, rebar and I-beams slagged and protruding like broken ribs. The skyline was decimated, a jagged collection of towering buildings looking on with their dark windows, glass shattered and lines of fracture creeping up from the charred and half-glassed streets.

He had taken the city captive and imposed his will on the remaining populous and people were ever about, day and night. Under the ministrations of the city's inhabitants the place was healing at a rapid rate. The inhabitants slaved, working under armed guard to fulfill his will. There were some holdouts, but public executions and the imposition of hard labor drastically limited the number of people who raised complaint. Not to mention the always present threat of being thrown to the reaming Brutes camped at the interchange cloverleaf. Most working to recover New Saint Etienne to a shadow of her functional glory and guarding Ashmund's position with their own lives.

Ashmund had skillfully exploited his sinister charisma and exacted a hold on people. No doubt it was more than fear that made them slave so. It was the kind of sick manipulation which preyed on social thinking, using people's desire not to be set apart as a motivator for obedience. Human history had proven time and again people who wanted to remain in a position of favor in an imaginary hierarchy were capable of heinous things, even against their own, and Azreal had capitalized on that.

He smiled at the thought as across the room Sonja rummaged around in an ornately carved and mirrored wet-bar. Under Azrael's disapproving gaze. She noisily retrieved a glass and her choice of poison. Slamming a highball glass onto the polished brass and lacquered mahogany, Sonja tore open a dark liquor and filled the glass to overflowing with heavy rum.

"I don't know what," she snapped, bringing the glass to her lips. A miniature wave of alcohol sloshed over the rim and down her fingers to dribble onto the bar and drip down the front of her shirt, staining a rifle sling which rode between her breasts, "But, I swear, they are up to something, Azrael. Mark my words."

Without waiting for him to respond she downed the drink in three deep gulps then proceeded to pour herself another.

"By all means," Ashmund hummed through his teeth, "Do come in and help yourself."

Sonja went on as if she hadn't heard him, muttering angrily under her breath.

She wasn't an unattractive woman. Uncultured, but not without a certain dark beauty he found irresistible. Of medium height, with skin the color of a roasted nut, and dark brown frizzy hair held away from her oval face with a dirty red bandanna. There were wooden and glass beads jangling from a cluster of tiny braids at her nape. She was shapely and slim, but her curves hinted at a woman who would grow wide in the hips and thighs as she aged.

Abandoning the uncapped bottle and spillage on the bar without a glance, Sonja crossed to the sitting area, her boots _thunk-thunking_ in hollow succession. She sat heavily on an empty settee and swilled her drink, wiping her mouth with the back of her forearm as she set the glass aside on a small marble topped table.

Azrael sighed through his nose, leaning toward the squat center table and tapping ash from a cigar into a heavy crystal dish. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his right leg over his left, working an alligator-loafered foot in circles while Sonja propped her elbows on her knees and fumed.

"They've been on the radio all day," she groused, "Only they've been switching back and forth in that language of theirs. Them two Jackals we got here can only understand 'bout half of it, and that Brute ain't no help, they say its not all in the same language, but we still put it together most o'what they're getting at."

"And?" Ashmund droned.

"And _nothing_," Sonja spat, retrieving her drink, "It's pretty much the same as we've heard before, some of what Gill and Donny's told us since they got here. Nothing new. Same stuff they've been saying. Launch bridges from North Etienne, and..."

"Do we have men at the south bank?" Ashmund asked with a bored tone.

"Of course," Sonja snapped, "As soon as they said somethin' about launching bridges I more than doubled the guard there but, _I'm telling you_, there's something we're missing. They're not that stupid. They're up to something."

Ashmund's bushy brows twitched upward a fraction in evident amusement at her concern. Then, he drew long and deep from his cigar. He held the smoke in his lungs, savoring the taste on his tongue and the rush of his heart pounding a beat harder for want of oxygen. He tipped his face and blew a series of blue-gray rings toward the high ceiling.

Because he had anticipated the threat of aggression eventually, the city itself was being protected by armed troopers patrolling the a low stockade. This wall was made interlaced trees and rebar, a lattice work of repurposed brick and stone wall slabs, chunks of asphalt, military hedgehogs like huge toy jacks, power poles and railroad ties chopped into pikes and jutting out at angles in an odd spacing. Stretches were topped with rusted razor and barbed wire and the whole thing was said to reach from the rocky abutment of a man-made breaker on the lower district's public beach to the perimeter fence of Fort Champlain, bridging the gap to the industrial district's rail yard, then cutting around the city's perimeter all the way to the Alsace Dam. As for the property Ashmund has claimed as his base of operations, the gated community of the Upper Gradoux District was guarded by its own armed patrols. So, Azrael wasn't given to great concern for his safety. There were enough obstacles for an invading force to have to go through that he felt secure in his place within the walls of this fortress of his own making.

While his uninvited guest stewed in loathing and needless apprehension, Ashmund continued unconcerned in blowing lazy, smoke rings. His powder-blue eyes were dark and menacing as he adopted a grave, thoughtful expression then hummed darkly to himself, a smile hinting at his lips.

* * *

**Caddo County; Main Staging Area, Rearguard **

Torsch 'Korid stood looking over the holographic projection of the primary attack area, hands folded in the small of his back. By any strategic standard the topographic battlefield information was antiquated. It was last updated well over a month ago when the active relays on the legion ships automatically sent scans to the device, before the ships and their monitoring equipment were destroyed. Not that 'Korid was under the impression the terrain had changed drastically in that time. Even recon teams leading the vanguard advancement and an inserted strike team had confirmed little functional change. Aside from a crude perimeter wall there was little which was unexpected. Still, 'Korid would have preferred having updated information.

The mapping transmitter was a purple glow depicting their involved wedge of continent. A wide band of green dots, representing active devices throughout the overall battle group, were scattered in a speckled arc several miles from the city in what was the movement's staging position. The steadily glowing markers represented ready vanguard, main attack group, and rearguard troops. Trosch unwound an arm from around himself and casually touched the image with a forefinger. It scaled back, revealing a similar and poised mass of troops a half mile inland from the northern bank of the River Alsace.

Movement from the Saint Vincent's complex and completed staging had taken the better part of the day. There had been no hurry in the advance, simply a casual progression of largely camouflaged troops and their auxiliary vehicles and equipment. Where General 'Varlemai's men had before taken a week to cross the same distance after securing prisoners, troops advancing for attack were not attempting to draw and maintain the attention of their opponents and were not obliged to take their time. Fourteen hours of daylight had proved more than ample in taking to account for unforeseen circumstances, which were some.

Two human trucks had run afoul, one of a flat tire and another of a cranky and overheating engine.

The first was easily enough repaired, Peach and her grandfather,Top Hat, had stood by in a truck outfitted with an amalgamated 50 caliber machine gun while the tire was exchanged for a spare. An abbreviated report on the incident indicated that while immobile the attack group had been approached by three half-starved, skeletal humans who had tried to surrender to them.

Torsch shook his head at the thought. With hands raised those people had given themselves up to what had appeared to be only a handful of humans and Elites. But, for every hundred soldiers visible everywhere there were a thousand which were not, invisible in the cloak of active camouflage.

In the end, the people had been left with food and water, their position marked and relayed back to N'Rule with instructions to send a team to extract and aid them.

The other vehicle had been beyond repair, the truck having made the journey from Cean to Saint Vincent's and on toward the main staging line had given its last when a coolant hose blew. Time for the crew was chewed up in shifting around necessary equipment in order to abandon the vehicle. The delay had turned in their favor. Nosalstius 'Caaln had reported that during the interim they were approached by no less than twenty humans bearing arms. Twenty who had been intuitive enough to understand what they were seeing and had been rousted to solidarity and a sense of duty.

Accounts of such happenings had come in from several movements and as it was the collective was increased by a total of one hundred and seventy-two humans bearing arms.

Unfortunately, other delays and contacts had not been without bloodshed.

Doubtless there were plenty of people who kept themselves hidden, the curious and the fearful watching from shadows and doorways, treelines and abandoned out buildings, never to be known by the hoard passing by. But, there had also been reports of contact with outlying and hostile people.

An advancing movement had come upon and been compelled to appropriately handle a group beset with the Shaking Sickness while yet another had come under fire from armed men holed up in a seed depot ten miles outside of Cean. These latter had been inclined to engage the troops in a firefight, to which the battle-hungry Sangheili warriors had gladly accommodated them.

'Korid sighed and slowly scrolled the holo-image. The Command Master mashed his mandibles together and narrowed his eyes at the revealed image. Thousands of red specks were set against the currently fuzzy and unfocused lines of buildings and streets.

The armor systems in use by allies were those which had been disconnected from the relay. They had been manually synched with the cartographer and would remain undetected by outside systems. Those which were still active on the main communications relay were easy to anticipate, as they would reveal the positions of what enemy members had acquired or were otherwise using the non-codex armor. By no means was 'Korid delusional enough to believe every enemy combatant or potential opponent was represented, but it did give him, and his field commanders, an idea of their opponent's configuration. Many of these dots were scattered, the dispersal not uniform. There were clusters here and there, and a string of red blips smeared all along what scouts and General 'Varlemai's infiltration team had reported was the low and incomplete fortification. In this, a number of Ashmund's garrison defenders were given away as they lay in wait from behind the wall.

The downfall of this situation was that now that not every human was an enemy there would be a great number of unrecognized entities, life-signatures which the scanning systems had no point of reference for and would display as a yellow dot of neither friend nor foe until confirmed and marked appropriately.

The potential for unintended casualties was far greater than Torsch wanted to dwell on.

He slowly shook his head.

Attacking a city was no small matter. Even for the Sangheili who as professional warriors were combat perfectionists expert in attacking defended positions, a people whose civil history played out like one long string of siege warfare after another. It was not to be undertake lightly. What they were about to do could very well shape the future of the planet and that of its inhabitants, for better or for worse.

Manipulating the image again, Torsch scaled it back, seeing a trail of nine green blips which bled together as they moved away from the old Forche Bridge. The rail bridge had been abandoned decades ago, a decaying remnant which crossed the river ten miles southeast of the city servicing a stretch of track no longer in use. At this crossing Daniel's team had tarried, meeting up with Antho 'Sesson. One blip belonged to that Sangheili and two more to the hunting dogs in his charge.

'Korid frowned, trying unsuccessfully to remember what it was 'Sesson had done to get himself placed in the Agricultural Division. It was something Torsch had once known only about second and third handedly to begin with, but even those details had faded from memory over time. Still, it was curious. How did such a soldier come into possession of Field Master, now Commander, Nosalstius 'Caaln's hunting dogs?

'Korid grunted and shook his head of the useless thought.

The other markers he saw belonged to Daniel and his team, as the group slowly made advance toward the Alsace Dam site and to an access point of the aquifer tunnels which would take them close to Ashmund's location.

Torsch ran a hand across his mouth and worried with a lower mandible. He fought off the choking ache which gathered in his throat as he hauled back his suddenly rebellious emotions. The jolt of concern worked to seize his chest at the reminder that Amy was out _there. _He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his nostrils, forcing his eyes to drift back north and west on the map toward the coastline.

A beacon pinged in an alternating rhythm, from bright neon red to dark crimson then back again as a close group of vibrant green markers, winking in a scattered sea of red, eased ever closer.

As the rest of the battle group waited until the appointed time and Daniel's team eased ever closer, Dak 'Varlemai accompanied by Vae 'Barcaam and Jhett 'Xdan was closing in on the first part of _his_ mission: collecting the escaped prisoner, Donnovan Jones.

* * *

**New Saint Etienne; Governor's Mansion**

"Let's see how it's looking today."

Gilbert Dufraine winced and sank to his elbows on the sofa. He awkwardly lifted a bottle and took a heavy drink of whisky as the paunchy old doctor began unwrapping his foot.

Since his arrival, Gill had been paid several visits a day by Doctor Arthur Guthrie as the man monitored and periodically debrided Gilbert's foot. It was a painstaking process. The injury was clean as far as wounds go. The blade of the energy sword had cauterized as it cut, leaving behind a burn-trail where it had only grazed his calf and a scab of black and white where it had sliced down his ankle and cut off his left pinkie toe. Removing the scabbed tissue and dead skin gave it a better chance of remaining clean and Gill a better chance of avoiding infection and losing more of his foot, or his leg.

"You know," the doctor said as he worked, "This beauty is doing a good job keeping you dehydrated, alcohol will only make it worse. Not that I think you're inclined to listen to me."

Gill grunted, gritting his teeth and talking around the bottle's neck, "You find me some actual pain killers and I'll consider it."

Guthrie smiled and shook his head, "Young man, you know as well as I do anything of that nature is _long_ gone."

Gill snorted.

It was the truth. By the time Ashmund had managed to get control of the city every drug store and pharmacy had been thoroughly looted of narcotics. Even the stash at Fairfield Army Medical Center had been run through, if not by desperate soldiers looking for a terminal high to escape what was going on then by the good doctor when he had ministered to the wounded later on. Anything which would have proven more helpful to Gilbert for pain management than biofoam and medigel had been used up long ago.

Except alcohol.

"There we go," Guthrie said, gently exposing the damage to Gilbert's foot.

Dufraine sucked in air through his teeth and exhaled a shaky breath as air hit the raw, blistered edges of the wound. Since his arrival, the burn had been kept moist with goopy antiseptic medigel, which only minimally helped with the pain, and was protected by being wrapped in several layers of gauze. What it needed was a skin graft, but medicine being what it was, time and cleanliness was the most Gill could hope for. It would heal up on its own, eventually.

"Not bad," Doctor Guthrie hummed, "Not bad at all."

"If you say so, Doc," Gill said tightly, taking another slug of whiskey.

"I think we can work with this, Jolene," Guthrie said as he turned to the young woman assisting him.

She was willowy and petite, standing a little slouched as if trying to hide. Gill held the neck of the bottle against his lips as he looked her over. Jolene was pretty, in the way young women who have had just a tad too much cosmetic surgery are. Too perfect. Breasts too large for her frame. Her face too symmetrical. She had a perfect nose, perfect cheeks, perfect chin, perfect full lips...

But, none of the plastic look could hide the defeat and emptiness Jolene Krumfelt wore. The governor's daughter. Well,_ former_ governor's.

Gill was a bit surprised Ashmund had let her make herself useful. Azrael wasn't the type to make concessions. Then again, maybe he had mellowed a bit in the past few months now that his goal was within reach. That and he probably realized living was a worse sentence for some than death could ever be. And, good help was hard to find. Jolene had clearly been brought into submission. Gill wondered what it must be like for such a once proud, stuck-up snob to be reduced to servitude, a guest in what had been her own family's house, and just what had she done in exchange for her life...

_Na_, he thought, Miss Krumfelt was pretty enough, but she was entirely too _white_ for Ashmund's tastes.

Jolene held out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured it carefully into the good doctor's palms. While he rubbed his hands together to dry, she capped the bottle and then helped him into a pare of latex gloves. Once set, Jolene lifted a cloth-covered tray, offering an assortment of instruments for the doctor's use. Guthrie selected a tapered tweezer and a pointed scalpel then scooted closer on a short stool and turned his full attention to Gill's damaged foot.

"I think we can get the last of this dead tissue removed and finally get this covered up properly," the doctor said more to himself.

Gill swigged whisky and braced himself for what was a notoriously painful experience.

He was being treated in his personal quarters, one of the many opulently furnished guest rooms on the lower floor of the governor's mansion's east wing. The house was three stories and offered just over ninty-thousand square feet of living and recreational space. There was an indoor Olympic sized swimming pool, the tennis court and putting range, the fully equipped gym, the library, two bowling lanes, the attached greenhouse, and the private cinema. Not to mention the bedrooms and other private nooks. The whole house was set in a U shape with areas for public reception, bathrooms, offices, two of the four dining rooms, a ballroom, and the library on the face of the U and the living quarters, private baths, ample personal and recreational spaces on the arms. In between set a large garden which had once been a manicured stretch of various blooming bushes, stone fountains, modern art pieces, and neat beds of flowers.

It had been built to resemble the French colonial style, with wide porticos on each level wrapping around the whole building, and the foundation set up on pillared, short stilts despite the whole, ritzy Upper Gradoux District being sufficiently elevated. There was a tree shaded and grassy lawn all around and a circular drive out front. On the western side the lawn stretched to a stone wall and steps could be taken down to a private stretch of beach and the private dock.

The building itself sat on the grounds of Caddo's county seat. The Upper Gradoux District was guarded like a compound, a miniature city unto itself which provided its current inhabitants a mix of luxury andprimitivism. Aside from the decadent furnishings and creature comforts such as running water and abundant liquors, Azrael's new location also had the benefit of the good doctor.

Apparently, Guthrie had been captured during the taking of Fort Champlain at Fairfield Army Hospital. His services were a fair trade for his life, although Gill had thought the man in ridiculously good humor for someone who was essentially a very useful prisoner.

As Guthrie finished trimming the wound and deemed it sufficiently clean, Dufraine watched Jolene set the tray of instruments aside and retrieve a sterile sealed packet containing a burn bandage. Yet another thing junkies and the desperate had left behind.

While his foot and lower leg were re-bandaged, Gill swigged at the whisky as a reward to himself and leaned back, arranging his shoulders more comfortably on the sofa.

When he had finished bandaging the foot, Guthrie straightened and chirped, "Alright, that should do nicely for now."

The doctor began packing away the medkit and Jolene Krumfelt turned to Dufraine with blank eyes and held out her hand, a yellow antibiotic in her palm.

Gill slowly took another drink, watching her as she stood there waiting. Over the past few days, the doc had kept Gill supplied with antibiotic tabs. While the scavengers and drug heads had made off with most of the narcotics, they had left behind z-packs. You couldn't get high or painlessly OD-out on clindamycin or pipercillin.

Dufraine lazily plucked the pill from Jolene's hand, popping it into his mouth, washing it down with a drink of alcohol from one hand and reaching to grab her wrist with the other.

She didn't flinch, she just looked down to where his hand held her arm.

"You stay," Gill growled.

Guthrie paused, eyes shifting from behind glasses taped together across the bridge of his nose. He snapped his medical bag shut and folded his hands, lacing his finger together.

He spoke softly, "You are in no condition for any, ah, extracurricular activities."

Gill grinned, "Oh, don't worry, I won't be doing much of the _activities_," his smile turned cruel.

"Young man," the doctor began, but Gilbert shot him a look that stopped him cold.

"Do you now who I am?"

Guthrie sighed and bowed his head, "That I do."

Dufraine's brows lowered over narrowed eyes, "Good," he said sternly.

"It's okay, Artie," Jolene said, her eyes downcast and hollow, as if this was an all too familiar situation and she knew how it was going to play out.

"Yeah, _Artie_," Gilbert mocked, "Shut your mouth, _Artie_. Get your crap, and _get out_."

* * *

**Caddo County; Alsace Dam Site**

Lake Bordereaux had been the primary reservoir servicing Caddo Parish and the UNSC's Army instillation at Fort Champlain. With the failure of the dam, some thirteen trillion gallons of water had been unleashed to flood the lower quarters of the sister cities of New Saint Etienne and North Etienne as the Alsace River had pushed to the gulf in a torrent then settled to reclaim her natural boundaries. Most of what was left of the fractured dam clung to the south side bank and sat in two pieces which sat ajar from one another. North of center, half of the great curved wall of reinforced polycrete was missing. A gaping, ragged opening yawned between the banks through which the river rushed to flow.

The Alsace River gurgled merrily along. Appearing thin and meandering beyond a sheer face of mud-slicked rock and gnarled roots, the river was nestled between banks of thick mire which had once been the lake's bottom. From this distance, the freed watercourse looked deceptively like little more than a stream in the empty bowl of the drained lake's depression.

Amy and the rest of Daniel's team had been dropped off some fifteen miles back and had picked their way to the old Fourche rail bridge. There they had met up with Antho 'Sesson and then moved on toward the dam site. It had taken several hours, but they had followed along roads and threaded their way through the thin woods along the lake's former bank, moving in active camouflage closer the dam. Amy was led by the green blips of Daniel and Kote on the head's-up display of her visor, with the dots of Winnefrid, Trice, Eeth, Antho and the dogs following her.

Though the trees around them were restless, blowing a steady breeze, in the heat of the late afternoon the smell coming off the nearby banks was overwhelming, something like raw sewage and rotting greenery.

As they approached closer to a tree line, the faint yellow of a marker came onto range on Amy's HUD. There was something living up there which the system didn't recognize. The group picked their way cautiously through and halted at a break which spilled out into an open space. Amy peered through the foliage.

Just beyond was an overgrown jogging path for South River Park. To the north, the charred A-frame of a swing set stood bent and forlorn in the glass-slagged remains of what had been a playground. Nearby, fire raked trees gave silent testament to the attack of several months ago. At the foot of the sloping ramp of the dam site's recreational walking bridge, munching happily on vines which twisted up the rusted and chained gate of the maintenance access scaffold, stood a... moose? Deer? Caribou?

Whatever it was was big, probably two thousand pounds, with long silky fur crusted with mud, and camel-like legs with knobby knees. A doleful moose-shaped head was crowned with heavy, mossy antlers and notched, spade-shaped ears. The animal was jerking at crawling vines with a wide, short trunk and feeding them into its mouth. It stopped and chewed as it slowly turned around to face them, nostrils at the end of the trunk working. Amy could see a thick bristly wattle swinging from its chin between two saber teeth extending from the upper jaw.

With the end of its long leathery nose raised, its head honed in on what was their position as the snout weaved back and forth, testing the air.

The animal huffed sharply and pawed the ground with a padded, split-toed foot then let out a bellowing _uunk_ before committing to retreat. It raised a short, piggish tail and evacuated bowls as it galloped away through the playground, leapt the charred remains of a teeter-totter, and crashed into the underbrush beyond.

Just as the thicket quited its rustling a red blip eased into HUD vision fields.

_Shit_, Amy thought, silently unlimbering her rifle.

At the top of the wide ramp of the dam site's walking bridge a man appeared, decked in random pieces of ill-fitting, scavenged Covenant armor, a plasma rifle at his shoulder. He peered down the ramp, sweeping the area before moving down the slope with unsteady, yet purposeful steps. As the seconds ticked past Amy expected him to call back for a comrade or for the tell-tale red dots of reinforcements to show up on her HUD, but neither happened. Starr and the rest of those watching already knew this area of the city's defensive line was poorly manned. This was probably the most excitement the trooper had seen in days. According to reports, guard was being heavily re-focused on the south bank deeper inside the city and along the forward perimeter wall in anticipation of an imminent attack on those areas. Not much was being spent on an area already blocked by a high polycrete wall. There were likely others within shouting distance, but this was a lonely post to have been assigned for sure.

When the man came upon the scene of the moose/deer/caribou's hasty exit, he inspected the torn ground, kicking at an unearthed rock before taking notice of the fresh droppings. Making a face, he slung his rifle by a make-shift sling and turned to begin the trek back up the ramp; and that's when two green dots broke quickly from their position.

_The dogs, _Amy had time to think as her eyes barely caught sight of tandem twinkling veils streaking away without a sound. Shields of active camouflage dissolved and from them exploded two sleek creatures moving at full-tilt, their feet silent against earth and polycrete. The guardsman glanced back, startling and stumbling, eyes going wide a half-second before the animals were on him. There was no cry of alarm, there wasn't enough time. One dog launched itself, mouth open wide. There was an audible wet crunch of bone as jaws locked around the man's neck and lower face and the dog bowled him to the ground. The other dog latched a mouth full of shark-teeth onto a wildly kicking leg and thrashed its head, severing the appendage.

Monstrously efficient, the dogs began immediately shredding him to pieces. Blood was everywhere and he was like a man tackled by living meat grinders.

Watching the scene Amy felt her guts liquefy as her mind struggled to process what she was seeing. The dogs tore, and jerked, and chomped, breaking and consuming bones, swallowing clothes and viscera. They worked together to lever the body apart and once the job was complete the larger one, the male as evidence by his almost obscene genitalia, trotted around the scene and inspected wayward chunks. With a toothy snout he bunted pieces of armor and the rifle before retrieving the severed lower leg and prancing back to present it to the smaller, more delicate one. The female. She gobbled the offering, then they both lapped at the polycrete ground, two long dark tongues flicking from each of their gore drenched mouths. When that was done the male lifted a hind leg and peed on the spot, then the pair began at a happy lope back from whence they came and the last thing Amy saw before they disappeared into camouflage was thin tails wagging and maws seeming to smile, all teeth and joyfully slavering death.

Heart nearly pounding out of her chest, Amy wished for a moment to mentally compartmentalize what she had just seen, but there wasn't time. Starr was compelled forward, following Daniel's and Kote's markers toward the maintenance access gate. Crossing the open ground, Amy barely noticed that the others positioned themselves in a semicircle to guard the exposed area as she pulled the handle of a small plasma blade from a pocket. Flicking on the knife, Starr made short work of the rusted manual lock, careful to catch the heavy chain. Green blips moved close and Amy felt the hum of electricity as another energy field bumped hers. Much stronger hands unwound the chain and maneuvered the gate open as silently as possible. Amy hustled down the walkway to the maintenance entrance as the others worked to follow. The gate was placed back in its original position and the chain re-secured. Sparks twinkled briefly as someone replaced the lock and melted it closed.

Slipping the lighted blade of her own knife into the line of the maintenance door at the handle, Amy cut through the interior locking and retaining bolts.

She pressed the lever with excruciating care and pulled at the door. It opened with an initial grinding complaint, but rolled neatly into the wall allowing them entry into the suffocating gloom beyond.

* * *

**New Saint Etienne; Upper Gradoux District**

"Can't get the thing off you," Donny muttered as he swung the truck into the groundskeeper's lot. "Don't be pokin' around on it," he said, parroting the parting warning he had received days ago, throwing the truck into park and flinging to driver's door open wide. "Might'n blow yourself up."

Ponce Lémaddoux Governor's Park had been named for the first governor of Caddo Parish, its lush grounds were flanked by acres of woodland, a golf course, and other sprawling estates in the Upper Gradoux District once home to the planet's affluent. Judges. Magistrates. A place where the rich didn't have to leave the comfort of their reality in order to conduct governance. Now, the whole of the fifty square mile gated area belonged to Ashmund and was inhabited by his most devoted followers. The enclave of Upper Gradoux had been the county seat of Caddo Parish, and still was, in a way.

The groundskeeper's building was of low cinderblock construction. Pallets of dried sod and clusters of dead trees with root balls wrapped in burlap filled an area encircled with chain-link also containing three large mowers and two tractors.

Three armed guards watched with half-interest as Jones climbed out and slammed the door. The men sat at a potting table passing around a cigarette and playing cards in the building's shadow.

"What'er you lookin' at?" Donny snarled as he crossed near them.

The men didn't reply. They just eyed the collar affixed around Jone's neck, one elbowing another and the lot snickering.

Donny snarled like a rabid dog and bared his teeth like a madman before entering the building unchallenged and leaving the guards to hoot with laughter.

Jones was regarded a something of a curiosity, and not in a good way. Ashmund had let him live, albeit in a much lower station. Until today he had been put to work busting his ass like a menial worker, but now Sonja wanted more people guarding the compound.

_That bitch._

Donny knew he had been knocked down from his place in the hierarchy because he had screwed up, and he tried to be thankful. He was lucky not to have a bullet in his head and his brains scattered like so many others who had fucked up. But, it had all come out clean in the wash. Hagart Deléon and them other two were dead, even if it had taken Gilbert Dufraine happening along to do it. Making it back had meant Donny was no longer part of Ashmund's inner circle, relegated to duty like most anyone else.

Add to that insult was the fact that the explosive collar was never coming off. It seemed the device encircling his neck was equipped with failsafes and the ignition switch he had managed to swipe did him little good. It was equipped with a user-specific interface that couldn't be tripped by just anyone. There was a tamper resistance to the whole arrangement which lent to the opinion that the collar would likely induce detonation if it was screwed with too much.

It was dark inside the building, cool and smelling of must, fuel, and various chemicals. He made his way past a narrow door which counted as a front office and down a hall, emerging into the main storage area. Equipment and tools lurked along the walls in the growing shadow of early evening until Jones found a switch and flicked it to life.

Bare bulbs strung from the low ceiling blinked awake and cast their raw light on a small stockpile of armor in the center of the room.

"Take the truck and get out on the line, _Donnovan_," Jones muttered, recalling with great bitterness the conversation he had had with Sonja. The woman didn't care one lick what Donny had been through and had no compassion at all for Jone's plight. Nevermind the intel Donny had given, he was just another warm body that could drive a truck and work patrol. But, at least he had been given that much. It could be worse, he could be dead, or on foot.

Jones snorted to himself and did his best not to be happy about any part of his situation. It wasn't right. He was a _hero_.

Having been relieved of all his accessories by the Elites, Donny needed new equipment, and he knew where Azrael had his men keep the best stowed. At least Donny got that much respect, even if he was taking it without explicate invitation. He found a police issue flack vest and slipped it over his head, securing the Velcro tabs on the sides. Then he lifted a riot baton, giving it a sling and smiling as the telescopic end extended with a chattering series of clicks. With a nod, Jones folded the weapon and tucked it into his belt-strap. He located a pistol still in its holster secured to a duty belt and was fiddling with the straps when he heard the door down the hall creak open and ease slowly closed on rusty hinges.

"You're not funny, assholes," he snarled.

No answer.

"You really wanna' try to scare a man with a gun?"

A scraping sound against the hall walls.

Donnovan jerked the pistol free and brought it up, crossing the room back to the hall ready to show he meant business. The straight shot through to the back-side of the exterior door greeted him. The hall was empty.

"The fuck...?" Jones muttered, arms relaxing as he stepped forward, a puzzled expression on his face.

As he reached the mouth of the hall the world went fuzzy, his skin lit with the low buzz of electricity and the gun clattered to the concrete floor as he was propelled backward, boots scuffing against the smooth floor. He couldn't breathe. Donnovan reached for his throat and struggled to grab hold of whatever had him. He choked, making raspy, wet sounds, eyes watering and lungs panicked as he felt himself lifted from the ground by his neck, the collar digging into his flesh.

He squealed, or tried to, legs trashing as the world before him broke into a liquid ripple, draining into a sea of silvery, distorted hexagons which dissolved into a huge, grinning Elite face.

Donnovan Jones promptly peed his pants.

"He did that last time," Jhett said offhandedly, emerging from active camouflage at Dak's side.

Vae humphed, unimpressed as his energy cloak diffused and fell like a cast-off shroud to disappear at his feet. He stepped closer to inspect the wiggling Jones.

"Careful," Jhett admonished, "He also spit in my face."

Vae wrinkled his snout in distaste.

Jones was wide-eyed, mouth opening and closing, lips working to form words as Dak 'Varlemai stood holding him aloft by the neck.

"No...you're...dead," Donnovan managed to squeak.

An unsympathetic smile slowly broke out across the massive Elite's battered and bruised face, "Not anymore," he growled.

* * *

**Sub-Note: **See**, **this is what happens when I get back to keeping the chapters more manageable and (hopefully) weekly updates. Ha! Cliffhangers.

I realized on my read-through that there are a few things I could have explained or secondary storylines I could have pursued, but for the sake of not wandering off on anymore side excursions and delaying this story further (and because some of it simply won't fit in with the story as written) I will be putting together a separate Recompense Delete Scenes collection of one-shots. I will explain how Kote and Penny got together and go into more of Kote's past I failed to explain; I have an idea for a brief little story about the priest and N'Rule to explain how his conversion got started; and a little lemony bit between Allison and Dak. If you can think of anything I could have explained better (and if I have no plans of going into detail in this story) I will add it to the list.


	34. Chapter 34

**Author's Note: **Thank you to Didd23, GuardianStarka, and Stuff for the reviews.

This is a short one.

Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Four

**Upper Gradoux District; Overflow Tunnel 3, Suboutlet B**

"Are you hungry?" Winnefrid asked.

Allison had parked herself on a huge chunk of polycrete, a curved slab which had broken loose from the wall. She was sitting on a wet-weather parka and was propped against her helmet and gear bag unwrapping a chunk of cheese. As she rummaged through her pack and produced the food the corporal noticed Antho 'Sesson watching intently.

Daniel's team was holding back at the juncture of two wide tunnels, approximately five hundred feet from the mouth of the overflow opening. They were illuminated by the light of Winnefrid's personal LED and the pale glow from the Elites' armor. Dank wetness hung in the air with a musty scent and all around them the walls were damp, slicked with mold and prickly grey mosses. They were stopped near the tunnels end, with a bath of cool, dim light from the setting suns peeping from the opening around the bend, trickling back from where the tunnel was designed to disgorge overflow into a man-made drainage culvert which eventually ran out to the ocean.

After securing the mantenance door through which they had gained entry, Amy had taken the lead in determining the way. It had taken most of the remaining daylight hours to traverse the underground passageways' near impenetrable inky darkness. Eventually they had made it to where they were waiting to meet with Vae 'Barcam and Jhett 'Xdan. The two Elites were scouting the area and would move ahead of the team to take out, and create diversions for Ashmund's men, allowing Daniel and the others to advance more readily under the cover of the impending chaos.

'Barcam and 'Xdan's markers could be seen closing in on the team's location on the holo map of the lit cartographer in Daniel's hand.

Antho inclined his head and regarded Allison from across the wide tunnel but ultimately looked down as if shy. The dogs lay curled at his feet, resting their noses... gills, whatever, after hours of sniffing and exploring. The male looked up, meeting the Sangheili's gaze. He flopped his thin tail in a familiar gesture of doggy happiness.

"I'm fucking _starving_. Here," Allison said, breaking off some cheese and setting it on a piece of bread balanced on her bent leg, "I've got plenty." She arranged two sandwiches, squeezing some peanut butter from a small brown packet onto each one then topping them off with another bit of bread.

"So gross," Cory said, shaking his head.

"Shut it," Allison sang, mashing one of the concoctions together between her palms, "Try some," she said, offering the food across to Antho.

His eyes flicked to the other Sangheili and he sank to his seat against the opposite curved wall, arranging his legs awkwardly and tucking himself between the dogs. He studied her hand before reaching cautiously for the morsel, shoulders slouched, eyes watching the other Elites.

Allison couldn't tell which smelled worse, Antho or his canine companions, but that was no reason to be rude. 'Sesson also didn't look like he had been missing many meals. Then again, Winnefrid figured if she had had the run of an ag ship and use of hunting dogs she would have probably packed on a gut, too.

Aside from being a little fat, which Winnefrid gathered wasn't socially acceptable for Elites, Antho was quiet and reserved. Kind of like Dak in a way, only 'Sesson wasn't hulkingly huge and his silence didn't come with complete and devastating self-assurance...

Alliosn had to work to keep a blush from coloring her cheeks as memories from the previous night played a seductive reel through her mind.

She cleared her throat and leaned back, mashing her own sandwich flat before taking a big bite as if in illustration.

"_Mmmm_," she hummed while she nodded and chewed.

Antho inspected the food in his hand, turning it this way and that, then popped it into his mouth and worked at it with his mandibles in a complex and distinctly Elite manner. He seemed to pause and consider the taste before munching on. When he swallowed he smiled slightly at Allison and nodded enthusiastically.

"See, good stuff, Trice doesn't know what he's talking about. This is perfect food. You've got your simple carbs for immediate energy, and your complex carbs for energy later, and plenty of good ol' protein. Here, I'll make us some more," Winnefrid said, turning to dig in her pack.

Cory shook his head as Allison set about that task.

In the ensuing silence, Antho leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees and his chins in his palms, watching with great interest. "You are female?" he finally asked quietly.

Kote rose from his casual position leaned against a far wall, leveling 'Sesson with a glare. The other Elite shrank back, looking at his lap. Eeth perked up, watching quietly. Even Daniel regarded Antho coolly from across the holo projection. Cory Trice and Amy looked from one to the other of the Elites in silence.

Winnefrid paused, not noticing any of this, "Yeah," she laughed as she continued on in her work, "I mean, last time I checked anyway," she teased, smiling as she squeezed the last of the peanut butter from the packet.

'Sesson remained with his face to his lap and peeked from under his brow ridges. Watching her he said quietly, "And, you are a soldier."

"Yep," Allison chirped, mashing the sandwiches one at a time and passing one over to Antho, "Regular Infantry."

The Elite timidly took the food, all the while regarding Winnefrid with a look of awe and checking the Elites staring at him with guarded disapproval.

Antho looked at the sandwich in his hand, his mouth parts moving for a moment as if he were trying to form a response, "And your males do not mind you are female?" he finally asked.

Allison smiled, biting into her sandwich and talking around a mouthful, "Not if they know what's good for 'em."

While all humans might look pretty much the same to Sangheili, Winnefrid was a striking female specimen. A hair over six feet tall, she was burly, with masculine arms and tight, muscled shoulders. Her fighting weight was two-twenty-five and she could dead-lift twice that. She had grown up as the youngest of five, and the only daughter. Her mother had died when she was young, so Allison had never really learned how to be girlie. The most feminine thing she had done was join a roller derby team, and she had managed to get kicked off of that for unnecessary roughness.

_Who knew there was such a thing in that sport?_

Though completely and unashamedly heterosexual, Winnefrid was just better at being one of the guys, and not many guys were brave enough to object. Not any who didn't want a black eye anyway.

Cory rolled his eyes, "Big talker," he said playfully.

"Shut. _It_," Allison said.

Daniel made a huffing sound in his chest and everyone looked up to see Vae and Jhett warbling from active camouflage as they rounded the bend.

"Dudes," Trice said in greeting, approaching the Elites.

They each clanked an elbow with Cory in the Elite equivalent of a high-five then doffed their helms. Vae tapped his cartographer against Daniel's, the information update transferring and synching automatically, while Jhett went to procure food from Winnefrid.

Amy eased over as Vae tucked his helm under his arm and put his mapping transmitter away. He began illustrating on Daniel's projected image, "I set our armor signatures to record our passage," he said, rotating the image and zooming out. Three faint green trails wound to a point miles to the east then branched in two where Vae and Jhett had diverted from Dak, trickling in from the west then moving in zigs and zags and loops where they had been scouting along the Governor's grounds. A single line traced a wandering path clear to the beach and all the way to 'Varlemai's marker which winked, overlappling Donnovan's signature at the eastern edge of the mansion.

"There are patrols scattered around the compound and several fortified positions on the main roadway leading in. The beach is undefended from here to the main surf break. From the other side to the mansion it is much the same, occasional troopers, most looking bored and encumbered in Covenant armor. The house itself is under heavy armed guard, and those outside seem to be excited. They anticipate us?"

"They anticipate _something_," Amy corrected, "but I don't think we, or_ those_, are it," she said, motioning to where the dogs lay next to Antho.

There was a long pause, then, "_Hmmm_. So, it _is_ true," Jhett said, cocking his head as he regarded 'Sesson.

Kote humphed irritably then muttered something churlish under his breath in Sangheili before going on, "It is, indeed."

Jhett responded in their native tongue, rejoined by Vae. The three Elites broke into rapid-fire conversation, tossing their language back and forth to one another like a ball. Eeth interrupted, his words lilted in question. The humans looked on, Cory Trice attempting don his helm and listen in through the translator as there was further exchange. It ended abruptly before Cory could effective eavesdrop, Antho looking down at the ground again and trying to make himself seem smaller.

"So many good men died," Jhett murmured, "Yet _that one_ lives."

Allison looked blankly from 'Hakkamr to 'Sesson and back again as Amy cast her gaze at Antho.

"That's not very nice," Trice put in.

Jhett snorted derision and they all stood or sat there in the uncomfortable silence for a few moments before Daniel's mapping transmitter chimed. He held the device aloft for all to see. Dak's beacon was pulsing, the signal sending three shallow ripples from the epicenter like a stone tossed in still water, conveying his ready holding status.

'Varlemai had eyes on his man and was prepared to proceed.

The map began automatically and slowly panning out, revealing acknowledgement pings as they began winking from command transmitters across the battle field movements from North Etienne to Cean.

"We move," Kote said, slipping his helm onto his head.

* * *

**Caddo County; Main Staging Area, Rearguard **

Light was draining from the west when the firing began. To his northwest and along the distant river Torsch could hear the _tat-a-tat-tat_ of human rifles reporting, interrupted occasionally by the brief, low-key rumble of an explosion as the North Etienne contingent drew attention to their location.

To the fore at the main stockade, Sangheili soldiers were antagonizing those stationed at the city's perimeter wall. Even a few of the human soldiers were joining in irritating Ashmund's guard.

The journey and subsequent wait had seemed to invigorated the troops. Instead of being weary from travel and complacent from waiting they seemed anxious for action and pumped with adrenaline, a fresh fire in their veins in anticipation as the battle loomed.

Occasionally there was a burst of wild gunfire from the trigger-happy vanguard, which only seemed to set Ashmund's troopers more on edge behind their fortification. They were already becoming frenzied, upset by the distant sound of combat rumbling from the river.

Somewhere in the opposite distance a low buzz droned. Torsch's ears picked up its register, the garbling sound changing in pitch as the human agricultural aircraft approached in blackout near 'Korid's location. It was several minutes before the enemy seemed to take notice and many more before twin Banshees emerged from somewhere within the city's depths. The aircraft cut the air, taking fire from the battlegroup staged below once they cleared the perimeter. While one remained true in its trajectory to intercept the human plane the other swooped to pepper the ground with plasma fire, only to be cut down by a burst of blue-green slag from the modified chain gun mounted in the back of Amy's truck.

Torsch smiled to himself as the Covenant craft belched black smoke and listed heavily, discharging a sparking air-fin and falling to the ground with a clanking crash.

Shouts sounded from the forward wall and gun reports intensified along the river. The remaining Banshee disappeared into the distance and growing darkness in pursuit.

* * *

**North Etienne, Alsace River**

The battle's debut chorus was being sung across the river, a deafening cacophony of orchestrated chaos.

Rounds zinged through the air and hit the dirt and folloage with hard _thuds_ and hollow _tha-whacks. _Plasma rounds made wet hissing sounds and gave off plumes of steam as they hit the muddy bank while bullets slapped the water, sending up small sprays and ricocheting off at angles. A few rounds pinged against the faces of launch bridges staged in advance. The hot smell of the river's banks was magnified, singed with the sent of cordite and heated plasma. Around First Sergeant/General Richard Brickey soldiers were hollering and returning fire, bullets and plasma, explosives and needle shards being exchanged with Ashmund's troopers on the opposite bank.

"At our ten!" Brickey shouted into what he hoped was the ear-region of the Elite's helmeted head next to him, "Less than two minutes and coming in hot. Get some firepower to back-up our boys and girls up-river and give our fly-boy some cover."

The Elite's response was to move away at a run, barking and bellowing to his fellows. Sangheili and humans rallied and part of the line seemed to shift and reorganize as they scattered to take up position.

"Crank up the heat!" Brickey hollered.

Soldiers around him began lighting up the opposite bank in earnest in a strategic dance of give-and-take which would keep the enemy occupied. That 'less than two minutes' seemed to stretch on forever as Brickey sighted across the river through his rifle and took pot-shots at any movement he saw on the opposite bank.

In the weeks before, Ashmund's unskilled labor had constructed a low berm, adding to the south river's brick river walk a stockade mainly of pre-fab polyconcrete which had once been the South River District's sidewalks, asphalt from parking lots and cinderblocks and sheet-metal from crumbling, recently flooded industrial buildings. It seemed a hastily constructed fortification, but with their relative elevation to the north bank it was good enough to provide the opposition with the ability to move behind their own line from low factory buildings or a warehouse-turned-apartment building to the berm with supplies and personnel unscathed.

Richard panned across the dock of the old Cajun's Bar and Seafood House building directly across the river and sent a few rounds downrange at movement behind the shattered glass windows.

Thus far his men hadn't taken any hits, and he suspected the enemy across the way was fairing the same. Ashmund's people had dug in their position like ticks. In traditional warfare Brickey's men would have the lower hand. Literally and figuratively. They were the ones who needed to make and then hold ground in order to get the launch bridges into position, and they couldn't do that under such heavy fire, not without numerous casualties, if at all. But, they only needed the enemy to _believe_ they intended a concentrated effort to put-in just downstream from the dam site, even under heavy opposition. Ashmund's newly recruited or coerced troopers were pouring in and the already increased numbers were growing. Many moved awkwardly, encumbered by their choice, or the necessity of dressing in pieces of Covenant armor. This could be seen even in glimpses afforded as people were scattering and dashing about from cover to cover along the wall.

The vigorous resistance and counter-assault was to their peril.

When he stopped to reload, the sound-dampening earpieces in Brickey's helmet registered the drone of an aircraft and he looked up to see a bright yellow biplane burst through the juxtaposed slabs of the broken dam upstream, its wings at a vertical pitch.

"Well, fuck me," Richard said in awe under his breath.

Ag pilots were regarded as a bit crazy, but that fellow had to be completely off his nut.

A Banshee broke over the top of the polycrete dam and as it descended in pursuit the biplane's engine wound up and the vertical aircraft rolled north in a high-nose ascending barrel roll. A sudden stillness engulfed the hostilities from both sides for a moment as everyone seemed to watch. Then shots rang out upriver as Brickey's men attempted to wing the Banshee lagging behind.

"That insane son-of-a-bitch is toying with him."

The blacked-out Grumman-Shaw was a faint smear of glinting canary against the darkened city scape as the biplane arched in a sharp curve and came level just long enough for the Banshee to let loose a plasma barrage. The human aircraft rolled-off before impact and dropped to initiate a one-hundred and eighty degree pitch-back, engine screaming, and took up the pursuing position. The Banshee lilted and jerked as a few rounds from the shore hit home and the two aircraft disappeared back over the dam.

For a few moments the river was deadly quiet except for the water's gurgle and squalls from the dog-fighting aircraft in the distance.

When the flyers reemerged the biplane broke from an evasive, scissoring figure-8 and nose-dived sharply, flying low enough to the river's surface to send a rooster-tail of water in its wake. A few ineffective bolts of plasma spewed from the pursuing Banshee and sizzled into the river as a barrage erupted from the north bank slapping the Covenant craft's sides. It bobbed and pitched and a shower of sparks began twinkling from various seams.

The biplane pulled into an ascending loop and screamed over the Banshee inverted, headed back toward the dam. The alien craft screeched and swooped to follow, trailing a thin stream of smoke visible against the last oranges of sunset.

The crafts disappeared again and when they reappeared the ag plane sputtered and pitched nose-first into a dive toward the southern shore.

"Move, move!" Brickey shouted, rising from the stone wall which flanked the North River Park's river-walk and charging toward the two M67A7 Enhanced-Deployment Armored Vehicle Launched-Bridges staged back and to his right.

The vehicles' jet engines whined to life and they lurched forward, sloped brows dosing through the rock wall and heavy tracks clattering over the rubble. Behind them Elites heaved two push-brides and shouldered the modified platforms.

There were reports from across the river as the movement was noticed. Rounds sent up sheets of dirt and sang against the vehicles' armored exteriors. Humans and Elites fell into the wake, using the machines as cover as they returned fire and moved laboriously toward the river.

The thrum of aircraft changed pitch and Brickey looked up to see the biplane buzzing across the south bank in a straight run. It was taking sporadic fire from confused troopers on the ground as they ducked the low-flying ag plane as it skimmed the ground and the wall misting a brume. Dual jets streamed from the plane's wing tips and dusted the south bank like a corn crop. The Banshee settled behind and wove in the plane's wake as it took up a firing posture. When the forward plasma guns pumped, bolts of heated gasses ignited the crop-duster's falling spray. A wall of fire roared to life, springing up and spreading in both directions as it followed the trail of fuel. The alien craft was swallowed by licking flames and the blaze chased the biplane laying down hate toward the coast.

Richard would have loved to have stood there and basked in the heat rolling across the river and the scene of the wall burning, nearby buildings catching fire, and personnel running and screaming and rolling down the bank to the water trying to put themselves out, but there was work to do. Setting fire to the south bank would not only eliminate a good number of enemy combatants but it would provide something to hold the attention of Ashmund's gunmen. Hopefully, for long enough.

Brickey's own men and women broke into a run as the launch-bridge carriers wound to full speed, tracks throwing clods of dirt and mud. Brickey glanced toward the dam to see a group launching a push-bridge across the fractured gap and soldiers pouring across firing on targets. Before him armored vehicle bodies see-sawed when they hit the bank's downward slope, generators kicking on and bridge platforms raising in anticipation. Elites hauled the two additional push-bridges and personnel slipped and slid down the embankment. Launch vehicles hit the bank and plowed up to their catwalks into the mud, stabilizing pilers deploying from their sides as bridges reached their apex and began clam-shelling open with mechanical groans. Hydraulics whirred and metal clanked as the launch-bridges unfolded and shifted into place. Personnel ramps extended and the Elites mounted the vehicles' flat tops. Launch-bridges settled to their maximum extension and piling ejectors thumped. The assemblies shook as stabilizing chains shot rods into the river bed.

With the area recently flooded the banks were slush-pits of muck and the bridges were nearly a hundred feet too short. In anticipation, Brickey's men had rigged push-bridges to be deployed. These extensions were laid flat on the launch-bridge decks and shoved across and into the mucky bank on the south side. Even as men and women set to work securing the additions Elites and soldiers crossed onto the south side with guns at the ready. A few broke off to pump precautionary rounds into the smoldering bodies at the water's edge while others made a charge up the slick bank.

Richard was half-way across one of the bridges when panicked shouts began sounding and people started shoving one another in a frenzy. A din sounded, and Brickey looked up as personnel on the opposite launch-bridge were diving into the water, the mud, anywhere they could as the biplane screamed up the river valley streaming fire and billowing smoke.

It hit the water less than a hundred feet away throwing sizzling spray and skipping like a stone, breaking into burning pieces. Debris ejected in all directions and Brickey sprinted for the southern shore and leapt for the shallows when a bi-wing summersaulted through the air knocking soldiers and Elites into the river as the plane's mangled body careened into the middle of the neighboring bridge.


	35. Chapter 35

**Author's Note: **Thanks to KATT9033, EQ, and Kit Williams for the reviews.

WANING: If you will recall, waaaaay back at the beginning of all this, I said this story would have some rough depictions in it. Gore and language and so forth. This is another of those chapters.

Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Five

**Main Staging Area, Rearguard**

The enemy was in a semi-organized frenzy. From over a mile away atop his perch on the elevated Highway 289 overpass, Torsch had a largely unobstructed view all the way to the forward battle lines. Behind the fortified wall Ashmund's personnel were jockeying for position. 'Korid caught glimpses of their terrified faces peeping out, hands holding weapons with white-knuckled grips. They flinched as one like flock of birds as distant gunfire from the north was punctuated by explosions.

'Korid pulled out his cartographer and consulted the image. He saw that the North Etienne contingent was already pushing into downtown. To the south, soldiers from Cean were moving in, lead by the large green dot of 'Caaln's Wraith as they took the southern railroad gate. Daniel's team had moved out onto the beach and Dak 'Varlemai's marker had gone dark.

Nodding to himself, Torsch slipped his helm onto his head and pulled the energy rifle from his back as he pressed the relay. He paused for a moment and watched as the vanguard line surged forward at his command. When he looked up warriors across the battlefield movements broke from active camouflage to charge the wall. What had moments before appeared to be a pitiful few hundred humans and scattered Elites became an invading force as hundreds of Sangheili became thousands which became tens of thousands.

The Sangheili easily outran their human counterparts and Ashmund's alarmed troopers began screaming and firing wildly at the advancement in hysteria. Amy's truck, driven by Peach, with an Elite warrior manning the chain gun, barreled forward. The amalgamated 50 cal spooled up and let loose with a barrage of plasma-heated slag as it crashed through the main roadblock.

Torsch redoubled his resolve and walled off the sudden feelings which rose in his hearts at the thought of Amy's name. He had to keep the emotions winnowed down and allow himself to be solely consumed by nothing more than strategic analysis and reaction. The adrenaline in his blood and a lifetime of battle insisted on it.

Stowing his mapping transmitter, the acting Command Master turned to the rearguard warriors around him. They were silent, their anticipation an almost tangible thing as they waited for his command.

* * *

**Crosette Beach**

Daniel's team stepped out of the tunnels into growing darkness. They followed New Saint Etienne's public access beach, keeping close to the backshore and its sandy dunes until they reached the rocky point break. From there it was a hike inland through hip-high dry grass to the sand swept road. By the time they made it beyond the head of the point break and began back down toward the crashing breakers on the other side the night had swallowed them whole.

The stretch of beach north of the point break had once been reserved, mostly for permit-holding surfers or residents of the posh neighborhood whose private stretch of beach abutted it and would provide the team access to the grounds of the governor's mansion.

Amy's knees protested as she jogged through water-logged sand at the shoreline. Waves swept at her feet, erasing the proof of the team's passage. Off to her left Starr could hear the roll and crash of high waves breaking in the trough. Ahead of her, markers indicated the positions of Daniel followed by Kote and Eeth. Vae and Jhett's beacons were out of range as they moved along the road to her right guarding the flank. Allison and Cory were just behind her, the sound of their breathing filling the comms link. Antho was somewhere back there as well, but the dogs were running from the front of the movement where Daniel was to the rear and back again, bounding through the surf. Irregular disturbances in the water's reaching wake gave evidence of them as they splashed by in active camouflage.

It took half an hour to reach the edge of the Upper Graddoux District. A placard secured to a canted t-post let them know they were entering the neighborhood's private beach.

A mile had never seemed so long to run, but when they began passing dark palatial houses lining the shore like monoliths, gunfire popped of in the distance and a surge of adrenaline hastened Amy's steps.

Chatter from Vae and Jhett crackled across the comms and there was the spitting whine of plasma fire across the link between their words. After a few moments of radio silence their markers were seen as they came down from the road to rejoin Daniel's team. The group sprinted for the beginning of a rock retaining wall which would take them to the beachside of the governor's grounds.

The wall rose in increments beside them. It was a cantilever construction, the face decorated to look like natural stone as it ran the line of the coast holding back several hundred tons of fill dirt. This elevated the governor's grounds and allowed the sprawling house to look down on the ocean and surrounding community from a man-made hillock. For Daniel's team, it meant hiking the beach access's narrow stone staircase.

At the top, Amy slipped past Kote and moved next to Daniel. She saw that the mansion itself was set nearly a thousand feet back into the hinterlands. Lights appeared to be on in every room and the glow illuminated a stretch of once manicured lawn grown wild from lack of maintenance and heavily trampled. Through tall windows Amy thought she could see the ghostly silhouettes of people moving to and fro within.

Daniel waited just long enough for the humans to catch their breath. He consulted his cartographer, but before Amy could get a good look the image was deactivated. Stowing the device, Daniel slipped his machete from its sheath and stepped up onto the lawn.

* * *

**Governor's Mansion**

Gilbert Dufraine lay draped across the couch with a satisfied, sleepy expression on his face. His injured leg was propped up on the sofa's cushions, his shirt open in the front and his trousers and belt still undone.

Jolene Krumfelt was across the room with her back to him, silently sniffing away tears as she stood half-naked in the bathroom wetting a washcloth at the sink. Marks on her arms were already turning to bruises and when she looked up Gill could see a wedge of her face in the vanity mirror. There was a split in her eyebrow and the crust of blood where her lip was busted. She winced as she pressed the cloth against her swollen eye.

_Snooty bitch_, Dufraine thought with a smirk. She had mistakenly thought this was going to be a 'business transaction'. Apparently she'd figured out how to make the most of her situation, trading certain _favors_ for what she needed to live and maintain the illusion of control over her own life.

It turned out that beneath her cowed exterior there had been a bit of fire in her yet. Jolene Krumfelt had failed to understand Gill wasn't just another of Ashmund's lackeys. She had tried to balk at the idea of rendering services in exchange for nothing, and Gill wasn't a man who paid for what he was entitled to. He might have been a gimp, and more than a little drunk, but he was also a trained hitman and Miss Krumfelt had mistaken his current state to mean he couldn't back himself up.

_Oh, he'd given her something, alright._

He had had a fantasy burning in his head for days regarding the full lips of one talkative Sergeant First Class Starr that had required tending to. _In exchange_ for playing along and behaving herself, Jolene Krumfelt got away with her teeth still in her head.

Sure, she had tried to walk out at first. And, Gill had proceeded to knock that snob down a peg or three.

Gilbert smirked. Now Jolene had a much better understanding of her _real_ place in the world to go along that nasty black eye.

Dufraine sighed and laced his hands behind his head.

There was a sound like a distant car backfiring. An eruption of harried voices and footfalls stirred out in the hall. Gill cracked one eye and looked at the closed door with a frown. Gunfire chattered away off toward the city and his frown turned into a scowl as Jolene moved from the bathroom. She was holding her blouse over her bosom and pressing the cloth to her eye as she listened to the growing noise.

"Don't just stand there," Gill grunted, "Make yourself useful and see what the hell is going on."

While Jolene shuffled to peep out into the hallway there was a pecking at the French doors.

Gill angled his head just enough to see Donnovan Jones standing out on the deep porch draped in shadow.

"Aw, fuck," Gilbert grumbled.

"It sounds like someone is actually attacking the city," Jolene said as she peered out into the hall, "They've reached the..."

Her words trailed off as Dufraine wrestled a pillow from beneath his leg and lobbed it across the room at her. It hit the door, knocking the heavy wood into the side of her head. "Get the _other_ damned door," he barked.

Jolene crossed the room buttoning her top awkwardly and Gill reached out to swat her backside as she passed. She skirted away with a yelp, cringing.

Gill belted a laugh at her expense and she unlatched the French door to let in the cool night air.

"The fuck you want?" Dufraine drawled as Donnovan took small steps into the room.

Jones didn't answer, not really, and Gill sat up, turning, careful of his leg. The other man was standing just inside at the threshold, his body lightly trembling and his mouth quivering as he made a mumbling "m-m-m-m" sound over and over again.

"Did you fall and hit your head or something, shit-bag?" Gill asked, swinging around a crutch which was leaned against the back of the couch.

He climbed upright but, "M-m-m," was Donny's only reply, his eyes wide and full of fear.

The collar around his neck made a low beeping noise. Jolene flinched and gasped as the device came alive with tiny lights. Donny's body jerked under an increased electric current and Jolene and Gilbert backed away. The piss stain on the front of Donny's jeans crawled wider.

The faintest of shimmers rippled the darkened doorway and the lethal red glitter of an assassin's sword came alive.

_"Mother fucker!" _Gill hissed, reaching to pull the Magnum from his shoulder holster.

Before he could bring the weapon clear there was a cracking electric _pop_ and the room seemed to flash over with a blue-white brilliance. Gilbert and Jolene were knocked from their feet by the force of the blast. They landed amid a mist of heated blood droplets which speckled the ceiling and settled to pepper the floor and furniture.

"You dumb son-of-a-bitch," Dufraine coughed, crawling behind an overturned armoire for cover. Having lost his handgun he fumbled to jerk a backup from the shaft of his boot, "You led him _right to me_," he rasped, even as his mind refused to believe what it was piecing together.

_That big fucker was dead. Had to be..._

Gilbert peeped to see Donny's headless body in an expanding pool of blood as it exsanguinated on the floor. Jolene was groaning several feet away, propped against a wall like a forgotten toy. Donnovan's head was in her lap like an open melon, covering her in blood and brain matter.

Gill ducked down when the unmistakable figure of Dak 'Varlemai stepped out of camouflage and into the room as silent as a shadow.

"_Goddamnit_," Gilbert said through gritted teeth, "Fuck." He took a few rapid breaths, determined to go out fighting. He pushed himself up, gun extended and...

The massive Elite crossed the room far too fast for something that size.

There was a crimson flash inches from Gill's face which singed his eyebrows and blistered his nose. But he didn't feel much of it. Before Dufraine could flinch, white-hot pain caught his elbows and then his knees. He opened his mouth and a scream came out of him all on its own before a huge fist caught him in the chest like a ten-ton hammer. Bones cracked and the air was robbed from his lungs. It felt like his heart might explode as he was sent back into the wall. His head rapped with a hollow thud, cracking the sheetrock, and he crashed to the floor.

He lay there for a few moments, which seemed to stretch into eternity. His body jerked of its own accord as his brain struggled to process the immense amount of pain.

Dak lifted the armoire as easily as a stick, setting it out of his path. He stood over Gill looking indecently cheerful, teeth bared in a savage carnivore grin.

Gill looked up at the Elite, "Fucking... ass... hole..." he choked.

The whites of Gilbert's eyes were red with hemorrhage, fish-like as they rolled around in his head and he struggled on the floor. The cauterized stumps where his arms and legs use to be attached were leaving behind smears of bloody char.

"Fucking... _kill me_!" Gill tried to scream. It came out more of a whisper, his lungs uncooperative and his head swimming as his vision began to fail.

Dak cocked his head. His imperious, angular face became grave with the pitiless expression of a cat about to play with its prey.

"In time," the Elite growled, lifting the helpless human and carrying him off into the rumbling night.

* * *

**Governor's Complex**

Amy figured the battle would reach the compound in time to provide cover, or it wouldn't.

It did.

There was an explosion far to the east beyond the face of the tall structure's U. Unintelligible shouts came muffled from within the house and shadowy forms scrambled, ebbing and flowing in knots beyond lighted windows. The air was pierced by the low din of chaotic yelling as gunfire pealed across the night.

People began pouring from every door. Personnel were in various states of dress and armor as they rushed to join the coming fight. Ashmund's troopers were scrambling across the lawn in groups and Daniel's team advanced unnoticed, cloaked in camouflage and keeping to the deep shadows. A shout tripped on the heels of the sound of Covenant carbides cracking. An engine roared from somewhere on the grounds. To the northwest there was a dull _whump _which shook the wing and shattered windows. It was background to the shouts of personnel, the clanking of weapons and rustling of movement, and the drumming of running feet. Someone screamed.

As Daniel's team neared the house four of Ashmund's men spilled from a doorway, late for the action, and the dogs zipped past Amy's position.

The last man in the line was run down, his legs knocked from beneath him. He managed to let out a cry as he hit the ground and lost his rifle. The dogs converged on him and a wet scream became a piercing shriek as his body was torn apart. The other men turned back and staggered, not sure of what they were seeing. They watched frozen in confusion and horror as their comrade appeared to be shredded by invisible chainsaws. Finally coming to themselves they lifted their weapons and fired on the flinging, slinging, bloody heap. Their rounds struck the dogs, causing their shields to flare and their camouflage to break out in bright, wavering ripples.

With the men occupied, Daniel's team slipped up to the building. Amy ran the final few yards and dived head first onto the deep porch. She hit the deck, tucking and rolling, half sliding and coming up in a crouch. She glanced back in time to see the dog's camouflage fail as the animals rounded, bodies drenched in blood.

"Oh, Christ, what the fuck are _those_?!" one man shrieked, tripping over his own feet as the group backed away. He fired a long burst into the air as he went down, the muzzle flashes lighting in a continuous stream until the rifle rang empty.

His companions opened fire reflexively. The sound did little more than provide accompaniment to the chaotic din which pealed from across the complex. Bullets tore at the earth and deflected against flagging but active canine shield. Rounds punched through the man struggling to crawl backwards and the dogs lunged.

"Sarge."

Amy snapped to the awkward, stereophonic sound of Cory's voice. He spoke form her left but his voice hummed as it was picked up and transferred across to the crackling comms piece in her right ear.

She remembered to breathe, and moved along the porch. The team slid through the deep shadows and swept into the house through an open doorway. The room beyond was wide, with tall ceilings and filled with heavy furniture. The whole area was in a state of disarray. Strewn all about in semi-organized piles were abandoned articles of clothing, pieces of personal equipment, blankets and pillows. There were open ammo cans on the floor, loaders and empty mags of various size, food wrappers, cigarette butts overflowing a crystal dish on the floor, and other sundry leavings scattered everywhere. It looked like the aftermath of some militia-squatter's version of a slumber party and smelled of the lingering, stale odor of cigarettes and many unwashed bodies.

Running footsteps diminished. The slamming of doors died down. Red dots floated across HUDs as personnel drifted away on an upper floor. Somewhere outside gunfire rattled amid the sound of shouts and yells. An explosion made the floor tremble.

Crossing the expansive living area-turned-sleepover-camp, Amy followed when Daniel and Kote moved through the inner doorway. The team broke off in alternating directions as they entered the wing's rotunda-style vestibule. The antechamber was huge. There was a wide and theatric main staircase and a tall, vaulted ceiling. Several rooms and halls branched off in all directions and open spaces yawed overhead beyond upper-level railings.

The dogs bounded in sniffing the air. Bloody slobber dripped from their jaws and their big paws smeared reddish prints on the pale rug in the center of the room. They pranced around unconcerned with their lack of camouflage and darted between the members of Daniel's team, tails wagging. The male bumped Amy's hip with his snout then slinked by rubbing himself against her, his butt wiggling happily as he trotted away.

The team swept the foyer, clearing it. They cleared entryways as they went, breaking into smaller units to check the attached rooms before meeting to form up at the mouth of a wide hall. Vae and Jhett held back to guard their rear and everyone else pushed forward.

They found the rooms off the hall in disarray but empty. Large guest bedrooms had no doubt been taken over by the upper echelon of Ashmund's goons. Amy and Kote crept into a huge room with a large poster bed. She found the attached bathroom rank, but unoccupied. The walk-in closet had been ransacked. She followed Kote back out into the hall, realizing just how huge the house was. Labyrinthine. And they were…

"Sargent Starr," came Winnefrid and Trice's voices in unison across the link.

* * *

**Rearguard Advancement**

When Torsch stepped off the warriors around him followed. The group sprinted down the highway's slope for several hundred meters before leaping the concrete side-rails. A hundred feet below their boots hit the 287, crossing it in long strides and spilling over to drop to the edge of the underpass road. The movement advanced on the tail end of the battle at the city's fortification. Torsch could see that the wall was overrun. The stronghold had been taken and spurts of gunfire and screams pealed out beyond. The city was under siege but 'Korid's focus was in getting the remaining rearguard behind the wall to retrench and...

The fuel rod blast hit from his right sending 'Korid and some of his men careening through the air and skidding across the asphalt amid molten bits. Torsch gritted his teeth as the feeling of fire raked from his feet to his head. His shields collapsed in an instant, and the heat stunned his armor's electrical load causing it to lock up. Incendiary gel smoldered, sizzling and crackling against his battle plating. At the seams it was eating its way through his bodysuit. His hearing tried to right itself and from somewhere in the fog he was aware of nearby soldiers returning fire as sound coalesced. There was a high-pitched screaming and from his peripheral vision Torsch saw a warrior supine on the ground bucking and flailing uncontrollably as plasma gel burned into his face through his shattered helmet.

'Korid could see his rifle ten feet away along the roadside, and he could feel the ends of his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword still clipped to his hip. But, he could barely move. His armor gave in reluctant fits as he struggled, watching helplessly from the ground as warriors and soldiers around him took cover and fired on the Brutes which hunkered beneath the overpass.

* * *

**Governor's Mansion**

A position marker blinked and Amy pushed past Kote. She followed the green arrow on her HUD down twists and turns. As she neared Allison and Cory's markers a yellow blip came into view with them and Starr quickened her pace.

When she stepped into the room the smell nearly knocked her back. The windows and the glass of the open French doors had been shattered, letting in an ocean breeze, but the air was thick with the scents of burnt ozone and singed flesh, and the coppery stench of blood. The coagulating fluid was splattered on the walls and the ceiling, and covered the toppled furniture in a thin film. A headless body was lying in a pool of crimson just inside the French doors. The male dog was lapping at the edge of the darkening fluid with his tongues.

Winnefrid had cut her camouflage and was standing before a young woman who sat in the middle of the room trembling. She was drenched in blood, shaking, wide-eyed. She looked lost sitting there next to a set of disembodied arms and legs, holding a Magnum in one hand and in her lap…

_Was that… part of a head?_

"He… he…" the woman said in a voice quivery from shock.

"Jolene?" Amy asked, crossing the room as she deactivated her own camouflage and shouldered her way between Winnefrid and Cory.

Starr squatted down next to Governor Krumfelt's daughter and Jolene looked up into the other woman's face. They had met several times, casually and in passing. They had hardly hung out in intersecting social circles, and there was no recognition in Krumfelt's cornflower blue eyes. Her pupils were flooded and her skin was pale beneath a veneer of blood.

"He…" she hiccupped.

"Are you hurt?" Amy asked.

Jolene looked at the bloody mush of hair, bone, and flesh cradled in her lap. She raised her hand, dripping with brain matter, to her own head, "I don't… th-think s-s-so," she stuttered. "It's-s not… m-mine." A flood of tears broke free from her eyes and she sobbed, "We-e're all gonna d-die."

"No, Jolene," Amy said as gently as she could, "But, I need you to tell me where Ashmund is."

Jolene looked at her as if she had invoked the name of a god, "Ash-shmund," she whispered, clamping her eyes shut as a tiny whine escaped her mouth, "Oh, n-no. He-e's going to kill everyone n-now," she cried.

"Jolene," Starr barked, a bit more harshly that she should have. She gave the younger woman's shoulder a shake and said in a rush, "I need you to focus. Where can we find him? Where is he?"

Jolene sat there trembling, her head making small side-to-side jerks, "You don't under-st-stand," she squeaked, "He-he'll… he'll…"

"Where is he?" Amy snapped.

Jolene's face drew up in an expression of anguish. She looked down at her lap, a gun laying against one palm as she petted a blob of gore and hair with the other. She wagged her head and sniffed. The female dog eased up, low crawling on her belly, and put her head against Jolene's shoulder. Krumfelt looked at the creature without reaction, eyes far off as she reached to pat the dog's neck. She slumped over, leaning her cheek against the animal's wide forehead as if the Sangheili hunting dog was a beloved pet.

She nodded to herself, her lips mashed together before she blubbered, "Upstairs. On the west wing." Her voice caught and her next words came out small like a child's, "He took my momma and daddy's room."

"Good girl," Amy stroked the side of the other woman's face.

The dog moved away and dashed out the door following her mate with Jolene watching like a woman trapped in a fog.

The rest of the team's markers were already moving beyond the French doors and down the porch when Amy rose to follow. She reached to reactivate her own camouflage and glanced back in time to see Jolene's empty eyes looking through her. Krumfelt's face was slack and emotionless as she leveled the Magnum at Amy with a jittery hand.

Starr's mind swam, half-panicked, but she whirled, bringing the Reaper to her shoulder, "Jolene, don't…"

* * *

**Sub-Note: **Bahahahaha! I regret nothing.


	36. Chapter 36

**Author's Note: **Sorry about that cliffhanger (yeah, not really). I'd like to say thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter: LyndaKey1, HatchetHaro, KATT9033, GuardianStarka, inukag94, and Kit Williams. Your continued support means more to me than you can know.

Please forgive any typos and so forth. I'll be going over it again later to check but I'm just so done with this chapter right now. I can't re-read it for the fifty-billionth time. I wanted to get it up tonight. So, you're welcome.

WARNING: The gore continues.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Six

**New Saint Etienne, Governor's Mansion **

"You don't understand," Jolene Krumfelt said in a heartbroken sob.

She held the handgun trained on Amy as Starr looked back at her from across the Reaper, the Covenant reticle sighted and ready.

"Y-you don't..." Jolene sniffed, "...understand."

Amy's finger was poised on the trigger, but Jolene swiftly tipped back the gun in her hand, put barrel in her own mouth, and fired.

The projectile slammed through her head, painting the floor and a part of the wall behind her with a red smear of her brains.

"Shit!" Starr shrieked.

It was one thing to be ready to kill people. _To_ kill people, or see people dead and dying. It was another monster altogether to watch someone kill themself.

"Sarge?!" came Cory's frantic voice.

"I'm fine," Amy croaked.

There wasn't a place in her mind to process this and this wasn't the time to find one. All Starr could do right then was cram the feelings down and pull a blanket of mental numbness over her spinning mind. They still had a job to do.

She crossed the room toward markers as Trice, Winnefrid, Eeth, and Antho jogged back to the door, "She fucking shot herself," Amy spat as she pushed past them.

Stepping back out into the night, Starr and the rest of the team followed behind Kote and Daniel. They ran the length of the porch and slinked past the foot of the east wing. As they past the corner they began across the courtyard which sprawled to fill the middle of the building's large U shape. From the time, _months_ ago, when Amy had toured the place, she remembered the courtyard as a manicured garden area full of blooming bushes, bird feeders and baths, and pieces of art. Now it looked like a moon-lit hobo camp. There were masses of tents and tarps strung from ratchet straps and lines, relocated furniture in jumbles, and clothing hung out to dry.

The sound of approaching battle was a dull and constant roar beyond the house. As they crossed to the west wing a few red and yellow dots began drifting around on HUDs up ahead.

Gunfire broke out and Amy's noise-dampening headset activated as a hail of bullets struck Daniel and Kote, their shields fairing in bolts of yellow as they dove for cover in the courtyard. The others scattered behind them and rounds chewed the ground at Amy's heels then carved chunks in the polycrete surface of a statue, spitting bits as Starr flattened herself against the opposite side and waited for the barrage to end.

When it did, a female voice yelled, "I got contacts! Sneaking up in the yard!"

There was a whoop and a few more gunshots rang from the upper floor window down into the courtyard, thwacking through tarpaulins and sending splintering wood from heavy furniture. To Amy's left, Vae wagered a glance from behind a hulking fountain and returned fire, lobbing plasma rounds toward the upper floor of the wing. A spastic spray of bullets zinged and splattered, rippling 'Barcaam's shields as he ducked back down.

"Hide and seek, asshole," a gruff male voice called.

_The fuck?_ Amy thought.

Ashmund's people shouldn't be able to _see_ them. Not just because they were moving in active camouflage, but because when Yipip had synched the armor of Daniel's army he had altered the shielding signatures. Their markers shouldn't appear on any displays not linked to the system.

A plasma grenade sailed in a gentle arc from within the courtyard, fizzing and crackling through the night air as it trailed a tail of blue-white like a little comet. It came to rest and stuck fast to the upper balcony rail.

"Down," a voice yelped from inside the house half a second before the detonation cracked the night.

The courtyard was illuminated in a wash of white brilliance. Someone inside the house screamed. Debris scattered and fell like rain.

"Move!" Kote hissed into the comms.

Amy dashed for the porch. She stumbled over something, almost losing her Reaper in the process, and muttered _fuckfuckfuckfuck_ over and over again until her feet fumble-climbed the lip of the porch and her shoulder slammed against the building's façade stopping her forward momentum. She landed hard against the building down from the damaged upper balcony, sandwiched between Trice and Kote. A hail of bullets tore at them from a lower window, giving up as they disappeared beneath the eve and swinging to try for Vae and Jhett who made it to the building behind Daniel and Allison. Another volley joined in as Eeth sprinted for Amy's position followed by Antho and the dogs.

It wasn't hard to figure they had neared where Ashmund had holed himself up. Under heavy guard. An increasing number of red markers seemed to point the way as personnel within moved about, red and yellow beacons breaking off from a mass in an upstairs room and making their way down what had to be halls.

Daniel snarled and his shields warbled revealing him as he threw a shoulder into the seams of the closed door, barging in with Allison, Vae, Jhett, and Antho at his heels. The dogs zipped in with them and gunfire burst in a crazed volley amid shouts and screams.

Amy took a step to follow and caught a few yellow and red dots as they approached from the flank. She turned hissing a warning to Cory just as troopers rounded the corner of the building. One of the men yelped when she let loose a blob of plasma-heated slag. He jumped back just in time and stumbled into the others, fingering the trigger of his pistol and sending rounds zinging past Amy's head. She squeezed the trigger again, vaguely aware of Cory's cry before he and Kote joined in. Ashmund's people ducked behind the corner, peeping out intermittently to lob wild shots. 'Hakkamr pushed past Amy and Trice with a growl, and stepped out beyond the building's edge, Sangheili curses filling the comms. He was silhouetted in yellow and white ribbons of energy as his shields and camouflage flagged amid gunfire. He braced his footing and fired until his rifle balked. Exhaust plates fanned open and the plasma coil vented heat that burned his hand. Kote threw the weapon down and exchanged it for his sword, lighting the blade and charging with a roar.

Amy edged to the corner and curled around it for a quick glance. Ashmund's men were scattering, still firing in a panic on Kote as the Elite slashed at them, taking them down one by one.

"Sarge," Cory's voice came across her comms in a pained and shocked croak overlaid against the others talking to one another as they battled it out in the house; gunfire, unintelligible shouts, and snarls.

"I'mhit," Trice slurred.

Starr pivoted hard to see him, camoflage failed, struggling to keep himself upright as he leaned against the wall. His Reaper was perched butt-end against a hip as blood seeped in a dark and shimmering river down his arm. The window behind him was struck by a slew of bullets from within and blew out. He flinched, which caused him to lose his balance and toppel to the deck.

Seconds seemed to tick past in slow motion as Amy scrambled to his side.

"Fire in the hole!" Allison's voice cut through the link.

The explosion thumped the wall and sent shards of glass flying from the shattered window and splinters of wood slinging out into the yard and raining down on Amy and Cory. The darkened form of bodies locked in a hand-to-hand graple crashed through the shattered wall several feet beyond where the doors hung loose on busted hinges. They tuscled for a few seconds on the porch then toppled out into the debris scattered yard and rolled with curses and grunting out of view. Jhett pulled himself through the opening after them, shields and camouflaged down but a sword snapping to life in his hand.

Amy slid to Trice's side on her knees, catching sight of movement through the broken upper deck. She brought her Reaper up, no time to aim, and felt the oven-like heat of the shotgun's thermal backlash as she painted the lip of the opening with plasma charged slag. Starr dragged Cory back as tiny flames kicked up and died down at the deck's shattered upper lip. A woman's scream pierced the noise and she fell through the opening and landed in a trashing heap on the boards, her hands burning agains her molten face.

A man ran from the house, arms flayling. He was followed by a dog which sailed through a window in pursuit. Eeth and Antho backed through the remains of the door sending shots down range through the opening.

Amy grabbed Cory's sleeve and tore it open over a neat bullet wound oozing blood from his bicep. Holes were torn in his side, seeping hot darkness from his ribs.

Vae gave ground, slipping back out under Eeth and Antho's cover fire.

Someone on the upper deck peeked over the smoldering edge and opened up, trying for Amy and Cory's position. The deck splintered at her feet and Trice drew his legs up as Eeth side-stepped and adjusted his aim, swinging his energy rifle up to deliver a barrage from below.

Cory's face knotted and his body tensed as he bit back a scream when Amy slammed the nib of a precious biofoam canister into one of the wounds and the port opened to fill the injury. He bit his lip, face drawn against the unenviable pain of application as she repeated the process again and again, shoving aside his tac vest and sealing the wounds. The noise of battle clamored in their comms and made the air crackle like a living thing around them.

Then, Kote was there, shouldering Amy aside and draping a wedge of Covenant bandage over Cory's upper arm and slapping one on his side. The others seemed to pull in close to give cover against resistance from within. Jhett returned from the courtyard to rejoin the fray with the female dog at his heels. Cory's tight features relaxed though his face was ashen. He gave Amy a weak smile and winced as she tugged his over-shirt and looped his arm through the opening, securing it as if in a sling.

"Good to go," Trice rasped, pushing to his feet with Kote's assistance.

The Private snuggled his Reaper into position and wrapped his hand around the grip, index finger resting against the trigger guard. Amy slapped a palm against the top of his helmet and he smiled. Allison emerged from the courtyard and approached the porch wiping her field knife clean across her opposite sleeve. She shiethed the blade and gave Cory a questioning thumbs-up which he returned with a wide grin.

They regrouped and moved into the house. Daniel was at the far wall of the ravaged room peering into the foyer beyond. His body was poised like a loaded gun, and blood dripped from the machete free in his hand. The bodies of several of Ashmund's troopers lay motionless all about. On the floor. Against walls. Draped over a topped and marred table. The male dog was wallowing gleefully in the spilled guts of a Brute who lay at Daniel's feet starring unseeing at the ceiling.

"Shit," Amy muttered.

"They've got TICs, Sarge," Winnefrid puffed into the comms, "A few've got active 'flage, too. The sneaky bastards."

Amy wasn't sure why it should come as a surpise that Ashmund's troopers would have thermals or why she hadn't considered they would make use of Covenant battlefield tech. Azrael Ashmund had equiped his people well.

And a fucking Brute. Ashmund had certainly saved the best to protect _himself._

_Not that it'll be good enough, _she thought.

Daniel's team picked their way across the room hurridly checking their weapons; swapping battery packs and exchanging mags, and rifling nearby bodies for ordnance and anything useful. They were well aware of the red and yellow markers floating around on HUDs, picked up from signatures on the upper floor.

The Elites' shields hummed as they recharged and came back online. Active camoflage all around thrummed and popped as it regenerated stealth fields that swallowed them one by one.

Daniel's green blip moved out into the great room beyond and the team stepped around and over bodies strewn across the floor as they broke into two files at the foot of a wide staircase. The dogs charged up the middle of the stairs, two monstrocities barely twinkling in camoflage that caught in the broken light spilling from open doors. The team began up to the second floor, the humans sprinting after the Elites.

Their lines broke apart at the landing and they swept around, coming across more of Ashmund's men bunkered down and hiding in rooms. They began quickly clearing the floor and shots chewed at walls and splintered furniture. The dogs darted in and out of the gunfire to down entrenched men with brutal efficiency. Stuffing and fluff swirrled around and bled from bedding and couches. The air smelled of burned plastic and singed flesh.

When they regrouped to hit the master's quarters, Daniel peeled off with Jhett and Antho following, plus dogs. They cut through another room, their markers showing them as they circled back to a flanking position on the balcony.

A lone yellow blip moved about in the room ahead and Amy could feel her pulse slamming in her veins as she and the others pushed down the wide hall. Eeth, Cory, and Allison slipped past the open door, moving to position on the other side. Amy, Vae, and Kote formed a stack. When they were ready 'Hakkamr snorted, stepping off.

His leading shoulder had barely cleared the edge of the casing and Amy heard the whisper soft sound of metal sliding against metal, then the dull thud of something hitting the carpet and rolling, rattling across hardwoods and out into the hall.

"_GRENADE_!" Trice managed to scream a half-second before the explosion lit.

A hail of splintering wood and shrapnel chased everyone as they hit the deck. Amy was knocked off her feet in one direction and slammed to the ground by Vae. Eeth tackled Cory and Allison and drove them through a closed door and out of the hall.

When Amy drug herself up amid raining debris she listed in a crouch, the unstable floor groaning beneath her feet. The hall had been blown open just beyond the threshold, the door hanging in splinters by a hinge at the edge of a gaping maw of jagged, ravaged wood. The smells of burnt chemicals and sulfur hung in the debris-clouded air.

"Stay _down_," Vae hissed, snatching her by the back of her tac vest and planting her hard on her butt against the floor as a hail of bullets chainsawed through the wall and tore through the air where she had been standing.

'Barcaam shoved her flat and before she could protest rolled to drape himself over her. His weakened shields flagged and crackled and hummed againat her skin. The thud of rounds punched through the adjacent wall muffle by Amy's dampening earpieces as bullets zinged and ricocheted against Vae's failing shields.

The barrage ended as the return of normal sound popped in her ears like pressure equalizing, punctuated by the dry _click, click, click_ of a spent magazine. Starr was hauled upright and she tucked her weapon to her shoulder and swung around to sight through the hole cut in the wall. Azrael Ashmund was mirrored in the canted, cracked glass of an ornate wet bar. He chambered the round on a fresh mag but before he could roll out and into play Amy could feel Daniel's heavy footsteps reverberating through the flooring. She couldn't see the Elite but as Ashmund twisted around the rifle was jerked from his hands and slammed into the side of his head.

Seeing the would-be dictator knocked unconscious seemed dream-like, removed from reality. A weight slipped from Amy's shoulders. Her body hummed with adrenaline. Her skin tingled and her mind was numb. She let her arms drop and her Reaper hung from her shoulder by its sling as she sagged against Vae's side. But, the relief was short lived.

"Sarge!" Cory Trice screeched.

Amy wheeled around, bringing the Reaper up, letting momentum carry it around to her back when she saw Cory on his knees beside a sprawled Kote.

'Hakkamr was slouched on the floor half-propped against a wall and half-cradled in the indentation his body had made slamming into it. A trail of purple blood was smeared in an arc across the singed, gaudy floral wallpaper behind him. Exposed skin was torn, peeled back in ragged tears over bone and tissues beneath. Both of Kote's raw hands were clasped to his collar and a river of perse pumped between his fingers around the piked end of a metal support beam protruding from his chest above the line of his shattered assault harness.

"Oh, God," Starr rasped, closing the distance in three steps and pulling Cory back as she dropped to her knees.

Kote twitched and choked as she unlatched his helmet unleashing a river of blood which ran from his mouth.

"Fuck," Amy breathed with a squeak, rummaging in her pockets.

'Hakkamr wriggled and made wet slurping sounds as she rattled a can of biofoam. Blood flecked from his lips which were drawn back over orange-green tinted fangs. Wide-eyes full of rage were locked onto the ravaged door. A trembling, blood covered hand came away from his neck. Amy could see the gray-yellow of bone at the joints of his knucles as he reached toward where Daniel was binding Ashmund.

"It's okay," Starr said breathlessly. "We got him. We got him, Kote," she said, her voice tight as she pressed the biofoam canister to his neck. The delivery nib sputtered, coughed a blob of foam, and hissed empty.

"Shit."

Amy guided Kote's tattered hand back and tried unsuccessfully to staunch the blood flowing from his chest around the wound with her palms. "We've got to get the bleeding stopped," she said, collecting her control even as her voice hitched and her hands shook. She searched Kote's armor but came up empty.

"_Vae, give me your bandages_," she yelled in desperation.

Kote slipped his hand away and reached past her shoulder again, his eyes slowly dimming.

"We got him," Amy squeaked in reassurance, again moving his hand back to the wound, "Just, _hang on_, Kote."

His mouth parts worked to form words that would not come. His tongue churned the blood rising in his throat into a froth which spilled from his mouth and slid down his neck.

"Sergeant Starr," 'Barcam said in a low voice.

Amy felt 'Hakkamr's tensed body begin to slack. He tried to speak but his breath came in agonizing rasps. His mandibles opened wide and his nostril slits flared. He was bleeding to death, his body starving for oxygen.

She became frantic, screaming "_Vae, come on, we're losing him,"_ not looking up from her task.

"Sarge," Cory said in a small voice.

Kote's hand was dripping blood across her shoulder as he reached, arm stretching to its full length and fingers wriggling weakly. The light in his eyes fading.

"_Godfuckingdamnit_," Amy seethe, looking into Kote's face, seeing his twitching mandibles pulling up on one side, his eyes far away.

"Sargent Starr," Allison said.

"Kote, hold on," Amy pleaded before screaming over her shoulder, "_Somebody fucking help me_!"

"Amy," Eeth said softly.

"_What!"_ she yelled, her voice squelching hoarse as she turned to see them watching her.

They were dirty and bleeding from their own, less critical injuries, their faces vacant but their eyes knowing, telling her the truth she wasn't ready to hear.

Allison removed her helmet. Her visor was cracked in half and her nose was swollen; her hands were cut up and her arms were scratched and bloody. Trice was next to her, his Reaper all but tied to his damaged arm. Eeth stood behind them equally scraped and bruised, armor cracked and dented. There was a bullet hole in the shaft of his boot leaking blood onto the floor. Vae eased closer from one side, right hand holding left bicep as purple seeped from a crack in the armor and ran through his fingers.

Jhett stepped into the hall, the faceplate of his helm shattered and blood trickling from his nostrils, "Let him go," he murmured, taking her arm and gently pulling her to her feet.

Her jaw trembled and she thought about pulling away. She wanted to argue but couldn't find the words as reality seeped in and adrenaline ebbed in her veins. She was left suddenly exhausted and confused. And when she looked back at Kote he was still reaching, his hand and arm wracked with a tremor which shook his whole body.

He was sitting there in an expanding pool of his own blood. Smiling.

The far-off look in his eyes was clouded as his life drained away, but Amy could see the longing as he reached for something no one else could see.

"..._Penny_..." he managed to cough.

Starr felt her knees go weak and tears filled her eyes.

Footsteps thumped against the floor and Amy looked up to see Daniel approaching. Ashmund was left laying on his face on a singed oriental rug. The dogs had slunk in to sniff at his motionless form as Antho lingered just out on the balcony. The pudgy, shy Elite kept his head down and his eyes averted from the sight of the Stealth Major bleeding out in the hallway.

Daniel freed the machete from its holster but Eeth moved to intercept him, "No," the Stealth Minor rasped, dropping his head respectfully, "He was my file-mate."

The rest was left unsaid and Daniel stowed his weapon with a nod.

Amy turned into Jhett, unable to watch as 'Garen drew and lit his sword. She flinched, eyes screwed shut at the heavy, wet, sizzling _crack _as the energy blade was buried in Kote's chest.

"A warrior at birth," Starr heard Eeth murmur, his words translated in her comms.

"A warrior in death," the others rumbled in unison.

The moment of stillness was broken by a long groan. Everyone turned to see Azrael Ashmund pulling against his bonds. With his wrists bound behind his back he was uselessly flopping his tied arms like broken wings, legs peddling uncoordinated against the carpet. The dogs circled, hopping around him with tails wagging, looking from Ashmund to Antho, Ashmund to Antho as if begging for the command.

The Elite made a tight fist at his side then splayed his fingers. The dogs whined and worked to contain their excitement, laying on their bellies with their heads on their forepaws, tongues playing at their teeth as they watched the bound human struggle back to consciousness.

There was an explosion close enough to make the house shutter followed by the advancing sound of distant gunfire. Daniel stepped off and snorted. The others followed, marshaling to his battlefield hand signals. Ashmund looked up in time to see the rest of Daniel's team enter the room as a gnarled, mangled Sangheili hand reached for him.

"No!" the man yelled, eyes full of hate as he tried to wriggle away. "You can't win this," Azrael said through clenched teeth, trashing as he was lifted from the floor.

Daniel paused, holding Ashmund by the collar and looking at the man with open contempt.

Azrael smiled. His ear was bleeding, leaking a thin trail of red that ended in a spreading stain on the front of his shirt. His tie was loose and askew and blood was smeared and matted with carpet fibers and glass shards ground in one side of his head. He looked deceptively like a disheveled banker. Like one of the cred-stock traders in a history book from after the collapse of paper and minted money.

"You. Won't. Win," Ashmund spat, "This is _my_ planet. These people belong to _me_!"

Daniel looked him over with a droll expression.

"Do you really think they will allow you to do this?" Azrael went on, "My followers are _everywhere_."

"But, for you, it's _over,"_ Amy snarled.

Ashmund blinked, turning to see her standing at Daniel's side. Recognition dawned on the man's face.

It should. They had once sat across the political table from one another. Many times. For hours. Back when she was trying to reconcile the UEG's requirements with the people's demands. Back when she had believed Ashmund spoke in-part for the rebel factions and wanted what was best for everyone. But, he was nothing more than a tyrant. He had poisoned people, _children_, and condemned them to a fatal illness and a horrible death in his attempt at domination. He had enslaved a city and had had countless numbers slaughtered, others fed to Brutes.

"Why, Sergeant Starr," he said amiably, as if he had just then remembered who she was. His broad smile revealed perfect teeth and he said, "I do believe _purple_ is your color."

Amy looked down and saw her hands, her arms, her shirt and her pants. She was covered in Kote's blood.

She clenched her fists and set her jaw, and a smile broke across Azrael's face as if he had won some small victory. He turned to Daniel, "It was you," back to Amy, his eyes twinkling, "Wasn't it?"

Ashmund leered into the silence when no one spoke.

"Oh, now, don't be shy. It _was_ you. It was your little hovel out in the country infiltrated by my man. Humm? Wasn't it? Tell me," his face grew dark and he snapped, "Did you watch her die?"

Amy was barely able to whisper, "What?"

"Oh, Gilbert told me. About how there was a cemetery plot and a grave covered in flowers, a headstone with the names of that _treacherous bitch_ and _my_ children carved in it."

Starr felt her lungs turn to stone, unable to draw in air as he went on, "Gill painted quite a lovely picture. Truly he did. It's really too bad she decided to betray me, to run away like the tramp she was."

"Shut up," Amy said, her voice barely audible.

He went on, "I have acquired everything I need. Doctor Guthrie _might_ have been able to save her. So, what I want to know is: did the eyes I'm looking into watch her die?"

"You sick son-of-a-bitch," Amy hissed.

Ashmund laughed, coughed, then laughed some more, "And _you_," he turned back to Daniel, "You must be the one who is infatuated with Hagart's daughter."

Daniel's hard expression cracked and he blinked.

Azrael tisked, "Sergeant Starr shared quite a bit with Gilbert, I'm afraid."

Daniel looked at Amy.

"I.. I..." she stammered.

"Did, what is her name?" Ashmund asked in jest, "Ah, yes, _Lucinda. _That's it_._"

Daniel jerked his gaze back to the man still clutched by and dangling from his fist. Scarred mandibles drew into a silent sneer of warning. A warning Azrael didn't heed.

"Did_ Lucinda_ find her father shot in the head? Oh, _tell me_ she's the one who found him."

Daniel's lips quivered, skinning back to reveal crooked fangs. He tightened his grip, twisting his fist into Ashmund's collar.

"Did she cry? Was it awful for her? Did you comfort her," Azrael cocked a bushy brow, "as a man _comforts_ a woman?"

Daniel growled, the sound rolling up from his chest as his whole body tensed, the tendons in his neck standing out in cords. His eyes narrowed over pupils constricted to tiny slits, nostrils flexing as he drew Ashmund's face close to his own.

Azrael smiled all the more and said mockingly, "Then again, you do appear to be barely more than _half_ a man," his smile turned down to a frown of pity and disgust, "Perhaps I should comfort her for you."

A hiss rattled in Daniel's throat, his body trembling as veins stood in relief against the muscles of his arm. His hand unwound form the fabric of Ashmund's shirt and the man dropped to the floor, his legs buckling to send him down on his knees. Azrael doubled over and hooted and choked on his laughter as Daniel whirled, hand clenching and mandibles working as he reined in his anger. The scarred Elite paced away two steps then turned on is heel, his face a mask of fury, his wrath terrifying as his resolve became absolute.

Daniel snatched Ashmund by the silvery, salt-and-pepper, tousled mess on his head and jerked him up. For the briefest of moments the scarred Elite smiled pleasantly but before the other man could get his feet underneath him to stand Daniel began walking, storming from the room, dragging Azrael by his hair after him.

The others followed, taking up a flanking posture as Daniel moved down the balcony and kicked in a door, crossing the room and pushing out into the hallway.

Ashmund choked and screamed in a fit, twisting and turning from Daniel's grasp all through the bowls of the mansion. He bellowed for help that wouldn't come and the Elite moved without concern as his party covered him meeting no resistance. They descended the wide main staircase as a unit and crossed cavernous front rooms to the wing's entryway. The front doors were already standing open, but at the foyer Ashmund found his feet and dug in his heels. He was jerked from the house, and dragged, kicking and screaming and pulling like a dog at the end of a leash as they crossed the deep porch to step down onto the main lawn.

Elite warriors were everywhere running and shouting reports, relaying information about advancing, friendly movements and the direction of hostiles seen trying to flee. Gunfire punched the air afar off and nearby and there was the sound of crashing and shattering glass from somewhere inside the house.

"Where are we going?" Amy asked as she jogged to keep up.

"There," Jhett barked, motioning to the head of the long drive where a familiar green truck swung through the dented gate.

"Sarge!" Peach hollered, her face looking ten years older even though she was smiling like a fiend as she braked hard and the truck drifted to a squalling stop at the edge of the circular drive.

"We have need of this conveyance," Vae said, motioning for the Elite manning the chain gun to get out.

"Holy... fuck," Peach said, a little too loud to be heard over the low din of nearby firefighting, "Is that who I think it is?"

She slipped out of the driver's seat as Daniel hauled Ashmund up by his hair and slammed him into the bed at Vae's feet.

"Affirmative," Eeth said, mounting up beside Vae.

Peach scrunched up her nose and leaned to spit in Azrael's face, "Rot in hell, asshole," she sneered.

"Jhett, take Cory and Allison. Antho, you and the dogs go, too. Peach," Starr pointed at an Elite she had never met, "and you, you two go with them. Get teams. Search and secure the house. The whole grounds," she said, retrieving a Reaper from the passenger floorboard and tossing it across the vehicle to Peach.

Daniel slammed the driver's seat back as far as it would go and wedged himself in. Amy barely had time to secure her door before the truck lurched, gears grinding and tires squealing.

As they tore from the Governor's grounds and began down the hillock road toward the city Amy could see that New Saint Etienne was fully under siege. A few buildings which were once presumed strongholds were in flames. Glimpses of people could be seen scattering through the streets ahead across the blood-splattered, plasma-raked, bullet-torn, and body-littered roads.

In the city streets firefights flared up and died down all around them and it looked like for Ashmund's men and the suviving, terrified civilians it was every man and woman for themselves.

Any vestige of politeness or manners or even lawfulness was a thing of the past. Amy caught a glimpse of a mob tearing at the boarded-up doors and windows of a building with their bare hands. Someone flashed by a moment later lighting a Molotov cocktail. A firefight spilled out into the street up ahead and disappeared down an ally with Elites and soldiers in pursuit. The truck's engine topped-out and whined loudly...

"Put it in fourth," she hollered across to Daniel as she hung on to the roll-bar for dear life.

He snarled and grappled at the gearshift with the crook of his partial arm. Gears ground and the truck shuttered. Eventually he found it and the vehicle jerked forward with renewed vigor.

The suspension rattled and Amy felt like her brain was jarred around in her skull when they turned down an industrial side street without slowing and hit a patch of asphalt webbed with railroad crossings.

"Watch out!" Starr screamed as up ahead the Wraith spooled up and crashed into, and began to climb over a staged line of inert locomotives. It's bulky form swung around as Daniel jerked the wheel, jostling his passengers and sending the truck into a skid along the tracks. He slammed his stump against the steering wheel and the horn bleated as the Wraith trundled on in a sharp turn. The truck burst through a wash of radiant heat throbbing from the tank's exhaust panels. For a moment a smell like burnt kerosene enveloped them.

They jostled and bumped along before Daniel finally guided them back out onto a smooth roadway. He eventually found a path and rejoined the main streets and turned down Aubuchon Boulevard, headed toward the highway. Amy looked down the road and could see it was blocked up ahead from the postal hub to the airport by the collapsed base of the evac tower.

"Turn here," she said, pointing to a side street.

Daniel obeyed, slinging his passengers to one side as the truck bumped the curb and rolled up onto a wide pedestrian walk. They wound around the obstruction through an eerily silent, low quarter neighborhood. It seemed that the closer they came to the highway the fewer reports of gunfire there was to be heard. The darkness beyond was decreasingly cut with muzzle flashes and plasma bursts but more and more bodies were caught in the passing headlamps.

By the time the truck was brought onto the service road and neared the main blockade they found the area swarming with rearguard Elites and other soldiers who held the line of the wall. They were knee-deep in blood and gore in some places, the bodies of the dead piled high in others as the invading force poised to defend their take.

Daniel let the truck roll to a stop and disembarked without killing the engine.

"What are we doing?" Amy asked as she piled out.

Daniel didn't answer, of course he didn't, and no one spoke for him as he reached into the bed to drag Azrael Ashmund out of the truck.

Soldiers, warriors, and civilian enforcements stepped back. As she followed, Starr saw that mingled with the army's forces were people who had clearly effected their own rebellion and they watched as the man who had enslaved and held them captive was hauled toward the gate. Amy felt her stomach flutter with an awareness. She had already seen with her own eyes why Daniel's rage was considered gloriously legendary, but she had a feeling she was about to witness something which would only solidify his place in the annals of Ambrosia II's history.

"You... will never... win," Ashmund mumbled, his face battered and his lower lip swollen, split and bleeding after his ride.

Daniel ignored him, pulling him along without breaking stride as two Elites and three soldiers cleared the road, moving aside concrete barricades and a gate of coiled razor wire.

"Do you... hear me?" Azrael asked, hanging limp, the toes of his once expensive alligator shoes scraping against the asphalt and polycrete. "My people are everywhere," he said, "This... will never end."

Daniel walked out into the expressway several paces and dropped Ashmund in the middle of the highway. The Elite turned and gestured toward a group of warriors with hand signals as he reached to unsheath his machete.

"You can kill me," Ashmund rambled on, his face set in a sneer as he collected himself awkwardly and rose up on his knees, "but it will never be over. This will go on..."

Daniel brought the machete down in a back-handed arc, silencing Ashmund mid-rant. The man's head was lopped off clean, his body crumpling to the polycrete to bleed a pool of crimson at Daniel's feet.

The scarred Sangheili stowed his weapon and lifted the quickly exanguinating corpse. He began back toward the roadblock with Azrael's body leaving a trail of blood behind him. A warrior carrying a human fuel canister pushed through the throng of silent onlookers, and Daniel hefted Ashmund's body, impailing it on a fork of rebar jutting from the face of the gate. The body was doused with gasoline and without expression Daniel stepped back unlimbering his plasma pistol.

A single round lit the accelerant and as Azrael Ashmund's remains burned Daniel tucked the pistol into leather straps crisscrossing his chest. He turned and the ranks of those watching parted before him. Amy watched as he disappeared into their midst with a grim expression on his face and the blood-smeared, green-black of a Legion Master's cloak snapping and fluttering from his shoulders in his wake.


	37. Chapter 37

**Author's Note: **Nope, the story is not over yet. I have a few loose ends to tie up before this thing can come to a close. About to start school again, so who knows when I'll update again. Thank you all for your patience and your continued support. A special thanks to the last chapter's reviewers: lodown, HatchetHaro, LyndaKey1, KATT9033, Kit Williams, Elemental Queen, and AlexKool.

Forgive any typos. Yadda, yadda, you know the drill.

Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Seven

**New Saint Etienne; Governor's Grounds**

The siege seemed to be over as quickly as it had begun, though it took all night to get satisfactory control over the city. The entirety of New Saint Etienne was but one-hundred hundred and eighty-three square miles, a quarter of which was consumed by the thinly-spread county seat. The Upper Gradoux District was situated at the southern edge of the bowl of the Ponce Lémaddoux Gulf. This was a fact which had been to the detriment of Azrael Ashmund and his followers. So assured of their own ability to hold off an attacking force, Ashmund's people had entrenched themselves well, but in so doing had failed to heed one of the cardinal truths of warfare: the position which is most difficult to breach is also the one which limits the option of retreat. The upper ranks of Ashmund's troopers had been trapped between a wall of Daniels' soldiers and the ocean, with no choice but to die fighting. And die they did. Quite poorly, many weighed down by Covenant armor. It was too heavy for humans to fight in, and those unwilling to lose its bulk in favor of its superior protection were easily overtaken and killed. The defending force was crushed against the coastline, their ranks torn into until few were left to stand. Or run and hide, as it were.

Daniel's staged plan thereafter was to isolate and overwhelm Ashmund's supporters within the districts one at a time. Citizens once held as captives quickly separated themselves from Azrael's people and united with Daniel's forces in trust. Bone weary and exhausted, these people helped the soldiers, police, and warriors in sorting out and tracking down Ashmund's supporters in a hunt Daniel swore would not end until the very last man and woman who had stood with Azrael Ashmund was dead. It was a blood-bath. But, that was kind of the Elites' thing.

Of course, it wasn't easy. Or necessarily fair. Good people and bad people looked much the same from this side of war. Who had aided in the commission of atrocities for the ideal of domination and who had done so to preserve their lives and that of their loved ones was a thing which, ordinarily, would have been the place of a court, council, or tribunal to sort out. As it stood, the very future of the planet depended on Daniel being every bit as ferocious as Sicera 'Berovai's terrible reputation. He was historically a man of very few scruples, and had determined early on where he would draw the line.

The business was attended to with brutal and unflinching efficiency. There was just something about the idea of total annihilation which made a chilling statement from the victor. By noon the following day an eerie silence hung over the city, punctuated occasionally by distant gunfire. Beneath the high arching suns work began on cleaning up the bloating death and rot which sank in with its stench. A stench which threatened only to become worse as time passed.

Buildings unable to be salvaged, entire blocks of inner-city homes crumbling and left abandoned became the site of funeral pyres as cleanup began. Scavenging birds lazily circled pillars of smoke in droves and rats invaded the blood-filled streets like swarming ants.

Rats. Amy absolutely _hated_ the rats. It wasn't so much because they were filthy creatures with devious little eyes and creepily twitching noses; or because the rats of Ambrosia II were huge, upwards of twenty pounds, with long bodies and short, furry tails more akin to a ferret, webbed feet and round, satellite ears; mouths and teeth that could take off a grown man's hand; and it wasn't their greasy, rancid smell like urine and decay or the fact that were ridiculously fast and looked like slick, shiny-brown inch-worms with their stumpy legs when they ran. It was the fact that they were absolutely unafraid of human beings that unnerved her.

Most of the creatures had moved up-land when the city had flooded and taken up residence in dank homes and other areas humanity gave up. They reproduced like, well, _rats_ and with the inhabitants of the city occupied with more pressing matters, the rodents had increased in numbers and spread throughout like a plague, invading high-ground hovels, nesting and breeding furiously.

The governor's mansion was infested. Ashmund's men had lived like pigs and that certainly hadn't helped. It had been like rolling out the welcome mat. Thumb-sized rat turds littered the floors of kitchens. Couches smelled of urine. Though, it was possible that wasn't completely the rats' doing. Squallier. That was what Amy thought walking through the house. High-class squallier. Like a bunch of low-lives who had never earned an honest thing once had suddenly gotten everything they had ever dreamed of, and because they had done nothing to actually earn they had proceeded to abuse it, neglect it, and let it go to hell on a sled.

Anything that couldn't be salvaged was pulled form the house and piled on the lawns and burned. The Upper Gradoux District became a base of operations, not because Daniel had any aspirations of assuming control, but because doing so reinforced the message that what had existed before was over, and the siege would not end until it had been thoroughly defeated. Though the city had been invaded largely by Elites, and many of their human members loosely identifiable as having formerly been UNSC military and UEG police forces, those who had suffered under Azrael Ashmund's short but pitiless regime seemed relieved. The help they had waited for, for months since the Covenant invasion, had come: simply not in the form they had expected.

Day passed into dusk and the sky grew darker by degrees. While Elites, soldiers, and police worked to raze the remainder of Ashmund's followers holding out, and Sanghili and civilians worked to clear the streets of the dead, the injured were brought onto the courtyard of the governor's grounds and tended to by the bright Doctor Guthrie and a an army of those willing and able to assist.

Elites and humans tended to their own and a system of triage was set up to share and ration limited medical supplies. Cory would be fine. The 9mm round had gone through the flesh of his bicep cleanly. His right ribs had sustained shrapnel damage which the good doctor seemed certain wasn't critical. Trice would have to live with a few bits of metal in his abdomen, and he would be sore for a while, but he was mobile and would heal up fine. Fine enough that by the time he was examined he wanted to know when someone was going to scare up some chow.

Amy found herself in charge of getting the governor's grounds in some sort of order by default. While Daniel lead strike teams through the city and people did their best to make order of a place ripped apart for the third, maybe even fourth time depending on how you wanted to look at it, Starr got rotations of local watch and guard duty going. It seemed as if news of how Daniel had made a public and fiery example of Ashmund had washed across the city tsunami-style, inspiring both awe and fear. What could only be described as pilgrims crowded around the grounds, probably more than a little morbidly curious, hoping to catch sight of this Elite who had rescued them. Most seemed lost and looking for direction, camping out and waiting to be told what to do. Some where singing, holding hands, being weird in general as they hoped to draw near to Daniel as a man draws close to a campfire in the cold of night.

It was kind of creepy.

There was an overwhelming acceptance, as if Daniel had launched the attack for his own gain. Which he hadn't, but the people were lost and searching and Amy knew human history was full of military leaders who had become, if unwilling, social leaders.

It was a lot to take in at once.

Late in the evening Starr managed to find an unclaimed room on an upper floor visibly void of rat-life. She moved in a half-dream fog of exhaustion and crawled across a settee and slept for the first time since before the whole thing had started, her mind and body spent. She didn't care that she was filthy. She didn't care that she had cuts and bruises that needed looking after. She slept for a few hours and dreamed of nothing, her mind too tired to tell itself stories, and woke hoping to find coffee somewhere.

* * *

Eeth made his way up the gravel drive with the rest of the strike teams, walking lightly despite the aching burn in his lower leg. The projectile had smashed through the greave sheathing his right cannon bone and torn through the hide above his fetlock joint. It was an incidental flesh wound, the tendons were intact, bruised but intact; and Eeth was too proud of himself in that moment to think much about it.

Daniel had assigned the young 'Garen , a Stealth Minor, as file leader and had trusted him to command warriors of his own. They had spent the better part of the night and day in the industrial and inner city districts hunting Ashmund's followers, dealing with miscreant opportunists, and clearing the city's jail. The strike teams had taken a reprieve on a rotation at the wall before being released to return to the mansion for sustenance and sleep. But, Eeth was too pumped to sleep. He was not certain he would ever be able to sleep again. Being selected to be a file leader, even with the situation as it was, was no small compliment coming from Daniel. It was as close to praise from the Great Legion Master Sicera 'Berovai as would ever come, even if the man had all but forbidden the name and title ever to be spoken again, and Eeth knew it.

'Garen and the rest of the men went their separate ways when they reached the house. Some in search of food and a drink, others a bath and sleep. But, Eeth wandered through the house looking for a familiar face. He found Cory raiding a cupboard in the main kitchen, Antho standing to the side holding an arm load of towels stained in shades of red and purple.

"Cory?"

Trice stood up too fast smacking his head on the bottom side of the counter. "Ouch, shit," he hissed as he emerged, face screwed up and rubbing the top of his head. One arm was secured, bent at a ninety degree angle, by strips of gauze. His over-shirt was draped across one shoulder, the sleeve tucked into his pants where it was empty.

"Yeah? " he hummed dazedly.

"Have you seen Peach?" Eeth asked.

A smile dawned on Cory's face. "_Maybe_," he said slyly, bobbing his eyebrows.

Eeth scowled.

Cory chuckled.

Antho stood there looking like he felt awkward.

"She's in the courtyard," Trice said as he worked a large roll of crinkly plastic and tore off a bag.

Eeth snorted and turned on his heel, waiting until he had crossed the room and turned down a hall before breaking into a trot.

The center courtyard was a maze of activity. The wounded sat in various states of injury, most with a cluster of their peers for support as wounds were tended. Eeth cursed under his breath, raising up in tip-toe and stretching to his maximum height to see over tarps. He spotted her halfway down the yard. Well, he spotted Top Hat's top hat first, but when he rounded a bullet-riddled statuary 'Garen saw Peach sitting next to her grandfather. She was perched in one of two relocated dinner chairs, scooted up next to some manner of table on which a human male reclined against an elbow. Doctor Guthrie was opposite her, inspecting the younger man's badly burned arm while the injured party grimaced and gripped Peach's hand.

"Peach," Eeth called across to her as he approached, a smile involuntarily pulling at his mandibles.

He wanted to rush to her and sweep her up into his arms, but he knew this was not the time or place. His hearts were just so full and he desperately wanted to…

She had been smiling, somewhat laughing, but when she looked up all the joy drained from her face, replaced by a look of dread. It halted Eeth's enthusiasm and sent a flutter through his guts.

_Something was wrong. _

Peach jumped to her feet as the Elite approached, "Eeth," she chirped as if startled.

"Yes," he rumbled cautiously, "What is it?"

He looked to Top Hat who turned his gaze to his granddaughter. She looked down at him as if seeking some kind of answer and the old man gave her a pointed look. Something passed between them and then Peach looked to the man lying on the table, wincing as Guthrie tested peeling the mass of melted faux leather from his shoulder.

"Well, that won't do," the doctor muttered to himself.

"Eeth, um," Peach said, giving him a forced smile, "This, um, this is Angel. Angel, this is Eeth."

"_Bonjour_," the young man managed to grind out, shifting and awkwardly offering his hand to 'Garen,

Eeth hesitated, but returned the handshake, which was strange, like two poorly suited dance partners seeing as Sangheili and humans had slightly different takes on the gesture.

"_Bonjour_," Eeth rumbled.

"Peach tell me much about you," Angel added with a French accent as thick as tar, "You and others she find refuge with, yes?"

He was a narrow-faced human of indeterminate race, with coal black hair and deep brown eyes. Tattoos webbed across the tops of his hands. Eeth was reminded of Kurt Jordan in that moment for some reason.

"Yes," Eeth said.

Peach laughed nervously, then clamped her hands to her mouth. Her eyes were shimmering and she looked like she had gone pale. She tried to speak, halted, cleared her throat then tried again, her words coming out all jumbled together, "Eeth can I talk to you a minute."

He cocked his head, eyes darting to the human male. But, Peach took his elbow and guided him away. They walked for a few moments, just wandering the garden while Peach seemed to think. They passed others receiving care. A young woman bandaged an older man's foot. An Elite was crudely stitching closed a gash to a fellow warrior's back.

"Um, Eeth," Peach finally managed to say, "I need to tell you… something."

The sound of her voice nearly stopped his hearts. She sounded so broken and afraid and in that moment Eeth's mind came up with a thousand ways he would kill Angel if he'd hurt her.

"Alright," he said slowly.

He turned to face her and she did not meet his gaze. She reached and touched the midline of his assault harness, her fingertips brushing across the scuffed metal surface.

"I didn't mean for, I mean, I didn't know…" she tried. Top teeth chewed bottom lip then she said, "When everything started happening and... and you guys showed up and..." her words broke, "I thought..." She looked up at him with eyes cupped with tears, "Angel's my boyfriend, Eeth. We couldn't find him. I thought he was dead and I... I… I love him," tears broke free and streamed down her cheeks. She hung her head and added like a breath, "I'm s-so s-sorry."

'Garen stood there for a few beats, his hearts in his stomach and his joy destroyed. He reached and took hold of her chin, tipping her face up. She looked up at him and wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands, "I'm r-really s-sorry," she sniffed.

"I am not," he said wistfully, catching a tear as it trickled down her face.

A sad smile flickered her mouth, "Really?"

Eeth nodded.

When she turned to go he stood there and watched her walk away, trying not to feel chagrinned. Trying to be happy for her. Eeth saw that Top Hat gave his granddaughter a disapproving look as she approached, but she and Angel exchanged a look which was full of mutual affection and nauseating.

Eeth snorted to himself and became aware of his surroundings. Warriors close by were conspicuously looking at him without looking at him and he felt a sudden swell of shame. He turned and stomped away, leaving the courtyard with as much pride as he could take with him.

* * *

The air was heavy with the smell of sweat and fatigue. On the east lawn soldiers had started a bonfire of broken and bullet-riddled furniture. A huge grill which sat on a deepened part of the adjacent porch was lit. People were bringing food out from somewhere in the house by the armload and arranging it on a long, buffet-style rock railing.

Someone had found and made coffee. Someone had found and broken out a stash of alcohol. Amy had a bit of both, pouring a nip of butterscotch vodka into her black coffee. When she stepped from the house and onto the east wing's lower, ocean-front deck everyone was in high-humor from the sounds of things. The air was loud with conversation, most of it various accounts of battles and skirmishes. She saw a group of soldiers making guns with their fingers and firing motions for effect. One pretended to get hit and fell to the lawn as if dramatically dead to hoots and laughter. The Elites were in riotous good spirits as well. As a military people they were familiar with these periods of down-time full of storytelling and general loafing; and several of the warriors were drinking with what appeared to be no amount of self control. Amy knew Sangheili usually frowned on the excess of alcohol. Special occasions and ceremony not withstanding. It was a sensory-dampening, reflex-inhibiting, situational-awareness thing for them, but at the current time a few seemed to be happily getting sloshed.

Smiling to herself and shaking her head, Amy sipped at her coffee and wound back through the house. She stepped out into the courtyard-turned infirmary and made her way through a sea of people getting wounds stitched, having limbs wrapped in bandages, and gritting their teeth as bullets and shrapnel were extracted. She saw Peach and Top Hat sitting and grinning with a young biker who looked badly burned. The man's left arm was a mass of melted pleather jacket and singed, blistered skin, but he was smiling and laughing even as Doctor Guthrie took medical sheers and peeled away the outerwear. A young woman was several clusters away doing her best to cheer up a fellow soldier getting his face stitched. Antho and Cory were wandering through the infirmary camp. Cory and another soldier were holding big plastic trash bags, dragging them behind on the ground as Antho helped a young civilian woman pick up blood-soaked towels, discarded clothing, and bandages.

"Hey, Sarge!"

Amy turned, coffee mug to her lips, to see Allison emerging from the back of the main section of the house. The corporal waved Starr over and hooked a thumb to the group emerging behind her, "Got someone here lookin' for you."

There were several Elites in mud-crusted armor and a rough looking man in pieces of UNSC battle dress. He was thin, with skin like a leather bag and tired eyes. Nevertheless, he extended a hand when Amy drew near and offered a smile, "Richard Brickey," he said in a gravely baritone that would put a few of the Elites to shame, "First Sergeant, 79th Military Police," his smile turned wan and he grumbled in addition, "General, North Etienne Contingent."

Amy returned the handshake, "Nice to finally put a face to the voice."

"Likewise," Brickey said, releasing her hand and hooking his thumbs into side-panels of his tac vest, "And it's nice to finally be here."

Brickey and his men had been running hard through the city, any updates Amy had managed to catch over the cartographic channel showed they were a bunch of hard-chargers. After forcing their way across the river and breaking Ashmund's defensive line at the southern shore, the several thousand soldiers he had brought across with him had moved to take downtown at a blinding pace. Many of them were the first to join Daniel and his teams in sniffing out any of the enemy who happened to have survived, and these were nearly the last to seek a little down time to recoup and have their wounds addressed.

"Quite the set-up you've pulled together here," Brickey said, looking out across the courtyard.

Amy shrugged and turned to look out across the scene. Most of those out in the triage area were non-critical, waiting their turn to have their wounds addressed. The worst cases had been moved into the house. A large dining room and an adjoing ballroom in the east wing served as a kind of hospital ward.

The wounded came in in waves, and had been coming in off and on for most of the day. One moment there would be a lull of stitching and bandaging and then, _bam,_ major gunshot wounds and severe plasma burns, and the medical staff, some patched-together themselves, were dealing with the end-result of a firefight.

Starr frowned and muttered a curse under her breath.

She saw the dogs sneaking among the tables and cots, muzzles swinging as they ran air along their heads and sniffed with the gill-slits at their cheeks. The male scampered under a heavy luncheon console which had served in the recent past as an operating table and the two dogs paused to lick eagerly at the puddle of blood on the ground congealing in the cool night air.

"Goddamnit,_" _Amy snapped, _"Antho_," she roared, so suddenly Brickey startled.

Across the courtyard everyone looked up and the fat Elite turned, looking toward her from ten paces away, eyes going wide.

"For the last time: get the _fucking_ **dogs** _out of here_."

Antho sheepishly passed a towel off to Cory and snapped his fingers, calling the dogs to him. They slinked away, tails between their legs, casting guilty glances back at Amy.

"Hey, wait up," Cory chirped, stuffing the towel in the sack he was holding then passing it off to one of the others, "I'll go with you."

The two wandered off, dogs following, and Amy bit back a slew of curses, "Sorry," she muttered.

Brickey just chuckled as the Elites behind him exchanged glances. They nodded respectfully to Starr and excused themselves with few words.

"They're getting a grill going on the other side of the east wing and some chow's bound to be cooking in the west kitchen," she called after them.

A few of Brickey's Elites waved their thanks as they drifted into the dwindling throng of the courtyard. Amy slurped her coffee, "Hungry?" she asked, "This place was stocked for the apocalypse and Ashmund's goons didn't even scratch the surface."

"I could do with some of that coffee."

She showed him to the pot in the east kitchen and it wasn't until he had added a slug of cinnamon whisky and savored a sip before things turned to talk of business.

Brickey leaned his lanky frame against the counter and crossed his feet at the ankles, "I still can't get my head around the fact that we actually managed to pull this off. I mean, there's a lot of work left to do, and nothin's set in stone yet, but damn. You get a load of those people outside the grounds?"

Amy half rolled her eyes and nodded.

"And, they're everywhere. I don't know how, but word's got around. Daniel's got himself quite a little following. He's put a real hurt on what's left of Asmund's sympathizers," Brickey blew on his coffee and went on, "I wouldn't want to be one of those sorry bastards right now. Pardon my language. And the people out there know it. Don't get me wrong; he's giving Ashmund's bunch exactly what they've got coming, but if he doesn't watch out he's gonna' get himself crowned fucking _king_. Pardon my French."

"Kaidon," Amy corrected with a smile.

Brickey raised an eyebrow.

"They're called kaidons, and they don't wear crowns. And, Daniel will refuse anyway. He's not doing this for glory."

"For shits and giggles, then? Pardon my…"

Amy waved the apology away, "For honor. For the age old reason men wage wars."

"Ah," Brickey mused, nodding, "For a woman, then." He put his coffee to his lips then paused, shooting Amy a questioning look, "Wait..."

She just stood there looking at him, half expecting to see a light bulb blink on over his head.

"No way," Brickey muttered.

"Yep."

"Well, fuck me sideways." He grimaced, "Sorry."

Starr just snorted and shook her head.

"So, ah, you hear anything from the front? Rear? At the wall?" he fumbled along, not really sure what to call it.

Amy shook her head, then nodded, "Well, yeah, I've seen it. Circa last night. I know they've kept it heavily manned, and every access point I or anyone else could think of is under guard or sealed tight, just in case."

He nodded approvingly.

"I heard you and some of your guys went swimming," Amy said.

Brickey smiled, "Yeah," he frowned, "Just wish we could have saved that flyboy," he furrowed his brows then muttered to himself, "_Bexter_. I think. Anyway, I'm pretty sure even if we could have gotten to him he was done for. Ag planes and the human body just aren't designed to take that kind of impact, even with a water landing. A hell of a flyer though. Wish I'd have gotten to meet him."

They stood there in silence for a few moments, then Brickey went on, "We won," he sighed, "but it sucks to lose good people."

"Mmm," Amy hummed in agreement.

Brickey took a hearty drink of his coffee then added, "The boys took it pretty hard when they heard about the Command Master."

His words were like a punch in the gut. Amy froze as her mind kicked over a few times to try to make some sense of what she had just heard.

"What?" she managed to ask, holding her mug so tight she thought she might crush it, "What about 'Korid?"

Brickey went on as if talking about the weather, unaware of how she suddenly couldn't breathe, "Word is a bunch of Brutes were hiding out under the main overpass at the heart of the cloverleaf. Ambush. Caught him and a bunch of others with him off guard. There was a nasty firefight and 'Caaln…" Brickey's tired mind suddenly caught the look on her face. A few of the pieces came together in his head and he realized she didn't know, "Aw, shit. He's one of yours, from Saint Vincent's. I'm sorry, I thought you knew…"

The floor rippled and Amy was aware that her mouth was moving but no words were coming out.

"They got him, Sergeant Starr."

A tiny squeak escaped her throat.

"I thought you knew."

* * *

Cory followed Antho out well beyond the main house to a clearing near an outbuilding. The Elite made a slight gesture with his hand and the dogs positioned themselves before him and sat side-by-side as one. Expectant. 'Sesson pulled a flat, winking disk from an armor pouch and held it over the dogs' heads.

They whined and Cory watched as Antho flicked a tab on the device and an energy barrier dropped in a wide dome around the canines. The male sniffed at the hazy purple cage then grumble. The female lay on her belly and seemed to sigh with resignation

'Sesson crouched and spoke to them in Sangheili and Cory poked the comms peace in his ear to hear the apologetic words translated in a hushed jumble.

"It's okay," Trice said, "I'm sure we can bring them something to eat in a little while, and once things calm down I bet Sarge'll be okay with them being out again."

Antho nodded solomly then rose to his feet.

"C'mon," Cory said with a wave, "Allison said they found the governor's bunker, stocked full of food-service stuff. Ever had barbeques pickled sausages?" he paused to rub his stomach and smack his lips, "Now, that's real food my fr..."

Trice was interrupted by a pop and a snap, and he glanced back in time to see Antho take a blow to the face.

The dogs snarled from their cage, hackles raised as 'Sesson staggered, holding his helmet tight to his head while clutching one side of his armored jaws as four Elites materialized from active camouflage, seeping from the shadows like night mist. They formed a loose circle to surround Cory and an increasingly panicked Antho. 'Sesson's breath came in heavy gulps hitched with fear as the others pressed in. Their fists were clenched like loaded weapons and their eyes were murderous, their mandibles twitching into silent snarls as they shifted.

Cory recognized them as some of the men he had seen come in with First Sergeant Brickey. Their scorched and blood-splattered armor was coated with a day-old layer of dried mud and river muck.

"You were warned to stay away, filth," one hissed.

Trice heard the caustic words translated across his comms and found himself snatched up and shoved from the circle. He stumbled to keep his footing, aware that the dogs were going wild. They were tearing at the ground with their forepaws, but the energy barrier simply closed the gaps keeping them penned in.

"Now, we teach you a lesson, disgrace," another of the Elites snarled.

Antho was scrambling in the midst of the circle like a cornered animal seeking escape. His eyes were huge, terrified, as the other Elites edged closer. 'Sesson yelped when he was grabbed, his arms twisted behind his back. He was levered off the ground hissing and screeching, legs kicking air wildly before one of the others stepped forward, putting a knee into Antho's groin and delivering a vicious blow to his side just below his assault harness into his left kidney. 'Sesson went limp with a whimper.

"Hey!" Trice yelled, rushing to grab one of the Elites by his rear shoulder plate.

Cory was flung back with ease to land on his seat in the dirt. As he climbed up, the struggling Antho was worked into a head-lock. The other warrior's arm was wrapped under his mandibles and around his neck locking his jaws shut and stifling cries. The other Elites proceeded to take turns moving in and out, punching and kicking Antho in vulnerable areas as they hurled insults.

"What are you doing?!" Trice shouted as he climbed to his feet. It was like watching a group of jocks beat up on the fat kid in school. "Leave him alone!"

Cory charged back, undeterred, and one of the Elites turned, drawing and lighting an energy sword in one movement. Trice skidded to a stop, eyes wide.

The Elite shoved him back and bared his fangs, "Run along, _human_," he snarled.

Cory saw a limp Antho being lifted and carried by his arms and legs into the darkness.

"This does not concern you."

* * *

**Sub-Note:** Ahahahahaaha! Oh, you know you love me.


	38. Chapter 38

**Author's Note:** Thank you to KATT9033, anonymous Guest, GuardianStarka, Elemental Queen, HatchetHaro, and LyndaKey1 for reviewing the last chapter.

This one is long-ish and kinda' all over the place, but I wanted to get a few things wrapped up so I can move the story along. This *could have* been split into two chapters, and maybe *should have* been, but you've all been so patient with my recent cliffhangers so I'm rewarding you by posting it all together.

Please ignore any typos. I'm sick and I feel like poop and I don't wanna' proof-read any more.

Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Eight

**New Saint Etienne; Governor's Complex**

"They got him," Brickey said again. He looked like he wanted to reach to offer Amy a reassuring touch but he stood fast.

Starr could feel her heart banging against her ribcage. Her lungs had turned to stone and she couldn't breathe. All the things left unsaid played through her mind, followed by all the things she _had_ said.

_Oh, God, no. Please, no..._

"They got him out," he said, and a wash of relief churned through her. Her knees nearly buckled and she forced her lungs to take in air. She could have punched Richard Brickey in the face for scaring her like that. "I didn't see it myself," he went on, "I was on the wrong end of the push. It took my guys hours to work their way through the city to get a couple teams out to where they were, but they got him," Brickey was talking fast, his words sounding distant through the blood rushing in Amy's ears, "I mean, the Brutes had the underpass blocked in, like they planned it. I don't think they really cared about stopping us. They just wanted a little payback. 'Caaln and his boys brought in the Wraith, and when my guys finally punched through the defensive position... the Command Master... most of 'em had never seen anything like it. Scared the shit out of them. The surviving men said when a mortar brought the 287 down, the Brutes started just capping their captives. They got 'Korid first, point blank in the chest with a Needler. But instead of dying, something in him snapped. He dragged himself up and was in a pretty impressive, uh..." he softly snapped his fingers as if trying to jump-start his memory, "..._Battle Rage_. That's what they called it."

Amy swallowed, "So, he's _alive_," she squeaked.

"Alive? Well, hell yeah, the tough som'bitch. He was pretty badly beaten, but apparently he charged two of the Brutes. And he killed both of those furry fuckers... with his _bare hands_. When it was over they had to drag him out of there. Hell, it took six of them just to _restrain_ him. But, they got him out. He refused to stop. Refused aid and kept fighting until sundown. But... they brought him here, probably two hours ago. I figured you knew all of this alrea..."

Amy was across the room and out the door before Brickey could finish the sentence.

* * *

"Winne...frid!"

Allison looked up from the partially disassembled weapon on the table in front of her to see a puffing, red-faced Cory Trice barrel into the dining hall. It was a spacious room, with separate entry and exit doors which lead into the adjoining kitchen, genuine gold-leaf wall paper and huge, imposing furniture. The long table could seat forty-two for a grand dinner with plenty of elbow room, but was currently seating about half as many for weapon's maintenance. All Elites except for Winnefrid.

Cory rushed to her side and grabbed hold of the back of her chair, doubling over and huffing for breath, "I need... your help." He pointed back toward the door he had come in through, "Hurry!" _h__uff, puff, huff, puff._

Allison picked up her Reaper's coil charger and slid it into the receiver, "What?" she asked.

Cory gulped air and looked to Vae who was sitting directly across the wide table, "Come... on," he shook Allison's seatback and turned to Jhett who was perched on the table a few seats down, one foot braced up in the seat of a chair, "...you guys. You gotta'... help."

"Slow down there, High-Speed. We don't speak spaz," Winnefrid said, closing the Reaper's hinge.

Trice growled between breaths then blurted, "They're probably gonna' kill him... come on!"

At this Allison and the Elites traded glances. A few others looking on began snapping their weapons back together quickly as if ready to follow.

"Got who? Where?" Winnefrid said, pushing her chair back as stood. She hung the Reaper on her shoulder by its sling and swept a handful of rocks off the tabletop and began thumbing them into the breach.

"Out by the storage... shed," Cory answered, already turning, "Antho. They grabbed him and... beat him up. Then drug him off. Toward the beach. Hurry!"

When he started back across the room he glanced over his shoulder to see Allison standing there exchanging looks with Vae. The other Elites had sank back to their seats. A few were shaking their heads and muttering in irritation.

"The fuck? Come on!" Trice cried.

"Look, Cory..." Winnefrid began, "about Antho..."

"We don't have time to talk about it," Trice raged, "Didn't you hear me? They're probably going to _kill_ him!"

Jhett snorted and growled something surly under his breath in Sangheili then said, "Would serve him right."

"What!" Cory chirped, "You can't be serious? Get up." He looked at the others who had settled back to work, but they didn't return his gaze.

"Cory," Allison said, trying to reason with him. Trice was a good soldier. A bit of a nieve do-gooder who always saw the best in people, but a good soldier. It made what she was about to say hard, "Antho," she started, "He's not a nice guy. I mean, _really _not a nice guy..."

"What the fuck, Allison? How can you say tha.."

"He's been their version of court marshaled, okay? He's a woman-abusing piece of shit. As far as I'm concerned that means whatever they do to him, he's had it coming," she crossed her arms and set her jaw.

Trice stood there with his mouth open looking at Winnefrid like she had betrayed him.

"For entirely too long," Vae added.

As Cory staired in disbelief several emotions passed over his face, the least of which was disgust, he backed toward the door. "That can't be... Come on, Winnefrid. You've met him. He's not... he's just..."

"Trice, look..." but he waved her off and was gone before she could say more.

* * *

A lifetime of war did things to a man's mind. It eroded the distance between the things which one remembered, and the things which one could never seem to forget. Pain brought the two together, painting pictures which were disjointed and fragmental, but somehow made sense. Through the years the memories changed, one moment of adrenaline-charged battle was substituted for others as broken memories tried to fill in the pieces. It all became an endless blur. Sometimes, the wrong moments were grafted in to fill stretches of emptiness which could not be recalled and a man was left wondering in which reality, which stretch of time he was truly living.

Torsch 'Korid sat naked on the floor of one of the mansion's guest rooms gritting his mandibles and trying to maintain control as he took deep breaths. His whole body was trembling, sweat pouring from him to mingle with blood and soot and trickle stinging into open wounds. At that moment he did not care. He needed a break. His mind was cracking. Around him, strewn about in the lamplight were blood-covered pieces of his armor, his torn and melted bodysuit, and various species-specific, Covenant field-medic tools. The room appeared to his eyes as if seen from behind the barrier of an energy shield, everything cast in the color of diluted Sangheili blood.

There was a large porcelain basin at his left knee, something which had most likely been intended for decorative purposes which was now serving a functional one. It was heaped full of bloody needle shards. It had taken him nearly two hours to tear them from his flesh, ripping open wounds which had already begun to heal and rooting blindly beneath the hide with a thin forceps until he could grip the shards and pull them free.

A painful task.

Two shots had struck him, one in the center of his assault harness and another in his right shoulder below the edge of the pauldron, at the juncture of his arm and chest. The first detonated and set him off his feet, temporarily blinding him as it sent hot bits into the underside of his face. The second round burst to send glassy fragments and molten bits of bodysuit in an explosive wave which drove the shrapnel beneath his skin. It should have taken off his arm, but fortunately for him, badly synthesized scar tissue proved more formidable than otherwise. Many of the fragments were stopped short, if barely so, while others tore across his flesh trapped between the under-side of his armor and his chest before imbedding themselves. Some to the bone.

With the shards finally removed 'Korid allowed himself a reprieve as his mind tossed to and fro and tried to knit spaces of blackness in his memory together. He had pushed himself too far and all he could do now was breathe and let it happen; to watch as the reel of incoherent bits ran before his mind's eye and threatening shock played tricks on his senses. He was so damned tired, teetering on the edge of pain which teemed with madness, a dark place that yawned like an open abyss. But, he had been into those depths recently and he knew he could not go back. Battle Rage was its own monster and all he could do was hold as still as possible and hope that this time it chose not to drag him over the edge into insanity.

In this half-dead stupor Torsch could feel himself standing, packed with Kote 'Hakkamree and other warriors was they were crammed into the troop carrier of a Type-25 Spirit-class dropship loaded well beyond the manufacturer's intended maximum occupant limit. It was a poorly lit space, smelly with the dankness of so many unwashed soldiers. The deck beneath their feet shuttered as the vehicle was pushed hard through lower atmosphere, exceeding a few more of the manufacturer's suggested limitations. At that moment in time it was the beginning of the end of the Jiralhanae Uprising and Torsch 'Koridee was an Ultra, one of a handful of surviving infantrymen with the Covenant Army's 3rd Sangheili Legion of Malevolence, and only one of two survivors of the entire 89th Ground Assault.

With their assigned force slaughtered, Torsch and Kote had become attached to another Elite ground-fighting group and found themselves being pulled from one engagement to another on the Brute homeworld of Doisac, putting down unrest one sect at a time. It was a blood bath. Carnage. Brutality. Unchecked barbarism.

The Jiralhanae were displeased with the rate at which their kind was being grafted into the Covenant's military forces. Enmity between the Jiralhanae and the Sangheili had been pronounced from the beginning, and when the Covenant High Council declined to grant the newly acquired and converted race admittance to largely Sangheili legions the Brutes, believing they were not being taken seriously enough, responded with outright rebellion. Some of the very legions whose ranks the Brutes were rioting to join were sent to quash the uprising. Which was no small pleasure for the Elites involved.

The troop carrier put down in the courtyard of an ancient village of rock and stone. When 'Koridee disembarked with the others onto the crumbling cobbled street he felt the impact ride up his shin bones, and when his integrated system synched with that of the local fighting group it was the voice of 'Koridee's own Kaidon which filled the battle net. The warriors converged on a building of once-great grandeur, testament to the Jiralhanae's foolish and ancient past. They fought their way through a cavernous ruin raked with plasma fire and joined up with General Sicera 'Berovai and his few remaining men. Together the forces snuffed out Brutes still hiding amid the ruin's vast tunnels. As the Sangheili troops withdrew and were passing through an open room 'Koridee heard a muffled hiss from an adjoining warren, then saw the sizzling blue-white of a plasma grenade lobbed at the group, sailing in a gentle arc, aimed directly for the highest ranking target. Sicera barked and soldiers scattered for cover, but Torsch grabbed his kaidon's arm, jerking the man to the ground and stepping into his place.

It was right. It was what any good soldier _should_ do. Sicera 'Berovai's life was of far more value than Torsch 'Koridee's and the Ultra had not a single second-thought. In truth, he was more than ready to die.

"'Koridee!" Kote 'Hakkemree's bellow rang in his ears.

Torsch caught the grenade with his chest and was already moving. Three seconds. Three seconds was all he had to make the most of his sacrifice. He charged the mouth of the tunnel, hearing his own breathing as if in slow motion, audio-filters picking up the sounds of panicked Jiralhanae scrambling. 'Koridee opened his mandibles and screamed, launching himself, throwing his arms wide and embracing the flash of blinding white nothing.

_"You touch him."_

_"No _you_ touch him..."_

_"_I_ will touch him."_

_"...perhaps some kind of malfunction in the grenade's priming system... either way, you should not have survived."_

_"You are doting on her so much, it is improper..."_

_"Leave us be, woman. This is our thinking time."_

_"Grandma 'Korid got the wrong urn, you are too big to fit inside."_

_"What are you doing out of that bed? Torsch 'Koridee you are not well enough to be..."_

_"Ha! Dance with me, Mother."_

_"I have approved your recommendation for the transfer of Kote 'Hakkemree into my legion... the Council has approved my request, you are to be awarded the Star of Apotheos..."_

_"No, Sicera."_

_"There are times in a man's life when he accepts things, not for the honor it brings to him, but for the honor it brings others."_

_"You can not force me... I will not bear the suffix..."_

_"You have no idea what you are saying..."_

_"It hurts, does it not? But, I can make it go away."_

_"Gods, he is ugly..."_

_"He is pale and freckled, like a girl..."_

_"I am sorry, please, please stop..."_

_"Get away from me, and take that brat of yours with you! Stop crying, you worthless little snot..."_

_"Torsch, stop it!"_

_"Your scars are repugnant... just get this over with..."_

_"She's gone, Torsch. She found a nest of wild dogs pups and..."_

_"We bide this for a time..."_

_"Care to share with the rest of the class, 'Koridee?"_

_"You are a coward, Torsch 'Korid."_

_"Let's not pretend this was something it wasn't."_

_"Kill them! Kill them all..."_

_"Hold... him... hold him... down..."_

_"Command Master... Command Master, stop..."_

_"You are injured."_

_"I am sorry... but, 'Hakkamr, he did not survive..."_

Torsch sucked in a gulp of air and came back to himself, back to this time and this place. The color of blood drained form his vision and his hearts found their proper rhythm, thumping hard in his chest as a wash of adrenaline left him feeling cold it its wake. He shivered, but reached and felt around, his hand finding the med-kit. He pulled it close, applying bandages to the chemical burns and threading a suture to address lacerations and punctures which refused to close on their own. When he had finished that, hands and body trembling, 'Korid fished around for a tool and lifted the thin, tapered forceps. He scooted, bracing his feet and twisting around as best he could. He pressed the point to the scarred tissue beneath his shoulder blade at the spot directly over the upper-axillary nerve bundle and felt the thin blade bite into the flesh.

He took a deep breath. He had one last thing, long overdue, which needed attending to before the endorphins pouring through his veins wore off much further.

* * *

Eeth was sitting alone in the sand, his back against the rock retaining wall as he stared out at the crashing waves. Before him the night's sky was thick with stars and the galaxy was an outstretched smear as far as the eye could see. Behind him, coming from the mansion grounds was the noise of celebration, but he did not feel like celebrating. His pride hurt and he just wanted to be alone with his humiliation. As he picked up a rock and idly tossed it toward the water General 'Varlemai dropped down from the top of the wall into the sand beside him. The big Elite folded his legs and elegantly parked his rear on the ground, a bottle of human alcohol in each huge fist.

Dak wordlessly offered over one of the bottleas, to which Eeth raised his brow ridges but said nothing as he took it.

'Varlemai snorted and bobbed his head sharply in an abbreviated nod without looking over. He was aware that social interaction was not his strong suit but he had heard what had happened, how Peach had humiliated 'Garen, _publicly_. He had no wish to further shame the young Stealth Minor, and even if it were acceptable to discuss, which it was not, Dak had no desire to dwell on such things.

He knew full well he could face the dismissal of his own courtship desires. He simply hoped Allison would be a bit more discrete if she chose to refuse.

Breaking the seal on his own bottle 'Varlemai took a long draught.

Unrequited attraction was a theme which played through most male Sangheili's lives. It was a thing which, over time, hardened hearts to rejection, though Dak surmised Eeth was a man experiencing the fickleness of women for the first time. Most pairings, fleeting or more permanent, were not founded on mutual affection, or any affection at all for that matter. To find and keep such a thing was not unheard of, but painfully rare. Females married or bred to increase their social standing, males for much the same. Affection came later, if at all. While it was true a Swordsmen could compel sex, not that Dak had ever been the kind, a noble could not _make_ a woman care for him.

This was just a hard fact of male Sangheili personal life.

Eeth watched from the corner of his eye as the general downed half the bottle in one swill, the nearly two liter vessel looking ridiculously small in the big man's hand.

'Garen considered the bottle in his own. It had a small handle molded into the glass at the base of the neck. The liquid inside was deep amber in the moonlight and the label was decorated in shades of red and gold and black with a prominent dancing figure breathing fire.

"Fire... ball," Eeth muttered.

"Is good," Dak grunted leaning to prop his massive shoulders against the rock wall as he looked out across the beach to the crashing waves.

Eeth shrugged, uncapped the bottle and dumped the liquid down his throat.

_All things from the ninth pit of hell. _

Eeth coughed and wheezed, doubling over as his eyes teared and his throat burned. Dak smiled like a cat, reaching over to thump his struggling companion on the back. Eeth eventually recovered, giving the bottle in his hand a look of reproach as he wiped his mandibles with his forearm. With 'Varlemai chuckling approvingly Eeth sat back, beginning to feel less shitty as the alcohol warmed his stomach.

They sat together in the silence, watching the waves batter the shore until a ruckus down the beach drew their attention.

A group of laughing, cursing warriors manhandled one of their own, dragging the limp Sanghieli soldier between them and dumping him in a heap on the sand. They laughed all the more as their victim tried weakly to crawl away, stomping on his hands and kicking his knees from beneath him.

"Looks like they got ahold of Antho 'Sesson," Eeth muttered, shaking his head before pouring more alcohol down his throat.

'Varlemai hummed, watching over Eeth's head as the warriors began taking turns kicking at the downed Antho. Neither of the onlookers moved to help. It was none of their business. And, they were both mildly disgusted as the besought soldier whimpered like a child and moaned like a woman and made no attempt to fight back. Instead, Antho curled into a fetal ball with his knees tucked to his stomach and his arms over his head.

'Sesson was dragged into a semi-upright position, crying like a babe, and relieved roughly of his assault harness. He kept locking his arms over his head even as he was tossed into the curling waves.

Dak made a thoughtful grunting sound, watching as Antho washed up onto the shore like a wet sack, one arm covering his face and the other clawing at the sand before he was kicked in the head. The group of Elites surrounded him, wading to their hips in the surf and hauling him upright. They jerked free more plates of armor and tipped 'Sesson over, throwing him on his back into the water.

"Do you think they will drown him?" Eeth puzzled.

Dak thought on this for a few moments, watching as Antho rolled onto the shore again gasping for breath and holding his mandibles. "Best do not," the general grumbled, "His life Field Master 'Caaln's to take."

Down the dark beach the warriors laughed and continued ripping off Antho's armor and bodysuit like ravenous wild dogs stripping a living carcass. The soldier was bawling now, actually _bawling_, as the boots were pulled from his feet and the braces yanked from his arms. The plates and ripped suit were flung out into the wake and 'Sesson's legs were kicked from beneath him. He went down in the churning breakers, pleading as his attackers tore off his helmet and proceeded to punch him as he struggled in the surf.

Then, one of the warriors planted a hand against the back of Antho's head and drove his face under water. And held him there.

Dak watched, then cursed, dropping his drink in the sand next to Eeth and standing as 'Sesson trashed to the raucous merriment of his attackers. Eeth scrambled to his feet, dusting the clinging sand from his hind end and tagging along.

Antho was allowed to come up for half a gulp of air, and a full punch in the snout, before his head was driven back under.

"_IS_ _ENOUGH_," General 'Varlemai roared.

The warriors laughter died down and they all looked up for a brief second, angry faces turning as if they were inclined to argue the matter. But, the sight of the huge officer stalking their way put their collective fire out. They abandoned Antho and scrambled from the kicking waves. As Dak continued on approach they hurried to arrange themselves in a dripping, semi-functional squad line and when he stopped they braced to attention with a collective bark.

Eeth slogged to a stop, not wanting to intrude on what could become a corporal situation as Antho was swept onto the beach. 'Sesson retched. His arms were trembling as he dragged himself naked from the beating surf. Eeth peered down, and what he saw made it feel like the universe had suddenly split in half.

* * *

Amy felt like it had taken hours for her to figure out where Torsch was, though it had likely only been a handful of minutes. She was panting, a lump of panic lurking in her stomach as she climbed the secondary service stairs to the upper floor of the east wing. She had searched the courtyard infirmary for warriors who might have come in with 'Korid, hoping to find anyone who might know where he was. With befuddled expressions the wounded had pointed her to the west ballroom which was serving as a ward, where he wasn't. There, more startled Elites suggested the west dining hall, where he wasn't either. Eventually she came across an Elite who reluctantly informed her that he had seen 'Korid retreating to the upper floor of the east wing.

The thought turned her guts. He had walked right past the room she had been asleep in and she never knew it.

She turned at a juncture in the hall and saw a thin, faint streak of light up ahead sneaking from beneath a door. When she approached, the thought of Sangheili privacy protocol didn't even enter her mind. She grabbed the knob and twisted, ready to put her shoulder into it and bust the door down if necessary.

It wasn't.

He was sitting in a contorted position on the floor among pieces of armor and the scattered contents of an alien med-kit. Naked as the day he was born. Hatched. Whatever. Torsch was looking down his back, with his neck twisted around in one direction, trying to lever himself by canting his shoulders in the opposite direction. He was propped again a trembling arm while the other was folded behind him, the long taper of alien forceps jabbed into his flesh as he twisted and dug.

"Torsch," Amy whispered.

He snarled and ripped the implement out, slinging an arc of blood and sending it in a slanted line across the floor and up one wall nearly to the ceiling. He unfurled himself and collapsed in a heap. Starr stood there as if frozen at the spectacle as his breathing went in and out in strangled wheezes. He lifted the tool, giving the thumb-sized shard gripped in the toothed, narrow nose of the forceps a contemptuous look. It was bone-white, covered in a veneer of purple blood with shreds of tissue caught in the jagged edges. He snorted and a triumphant smile pulled his mandibles into a wide, manic grin.

"What is that?" Amy breathed.

When his eyes rolled up and met hers his pupils were dilated like disks and Amy took an involuntary step back.

"A piece... of my armor..." he panted.

She looked at the battle plates strewn on the floor. "Your armor is black, 'Korid," she said.

"Thirty-eight... years," he panted, "I have lived with the pain this has caused me," _pant, pant_," for thirty-eight years."

He snarled something in Snagheili and let his arm fall limply to the floor. He breathed up at the ceiling then seemed to come to himself with a guilty start. The muscles in his jaws bunched and he looked at her and huffed, "You should not... be here."

"Like hell," Starr said, forcing herself into the room and closing the door at her back, "You're hurt."

When he spoke she could tell he was trying to keep his voice calm, anger simmering, "That is not... your concern."

"Yes, it is," Amy said, setting her jaw and crossing to him.

"No," he snapped, stopping her in her tracks.

He rolled over and got laboriously to his feet. All four-hundred bloody and scarred, scabbed and stitched, beautifully chiseled, naked pounds of him. He turned his neck as if working out a kink and flexed his jaw, looking a bit dizzy. He tongued his split upper mandible and stood there glowering at her.

As Amy's mind worked furiously for something to say Torsch took an unsteady step toward her. He crinkled up his snout, baring his fangs and hissed, _"Leave."_

"Goddamnit, _no_, Torsch."

"This is _improper," _he snarled_,_ "It is lewd. Your being here makes it appear... _as if it something_ _which it is not_."

That stung and Amy unsuccessfully tried to throttle her irritation, "Oh, to hell with proper,_'Korid,_" she said. She clenched her fists, fingernails digging into her palms, "You want me to spell it out? Fine. Let me make it clear. I'm here because I was worried about you. I thought... and I just..." she took a deep breath, "_This_," Amy motioned rapidly from herself to him several times with her hand, "This is _not,_ in any way, me saying I want you to _dick me down, _okay?"

He made a pained expression of disgust and looked away snarling, "What is wrong with you?"

Amy crossed her arms to hold back the tangled emotions she felt at seeing him, all of him, like this: brash and bruised and bloody.

Torsch just snorted, "I do not require, _nor_ _wish,_ your assistance, _woman_."

_Liar, _he told himself.

Amy deflated and her eyes flickered. His words had hurt her, which hurt him in return and broke the apex of his pain-fuelled fury.

He sighed and Starr saw his angry glare melt into a forlorn gaze. His eyes gave his feelings away even as he tried to hide them by turning his head. As much as she hated to think it, that moment of vulnerability was something she could actually work with.

"Let me help you, Torsch," she said gently, "Please."

There was a barbed silence as they stood there and he fumed for a few more moments before muttering, "Very well."

On shaky legs he stepped to a wide vanity desk, pulled out the heavy stool and parked his rear in it, turning his back to her. Amy retrieved a roll of bandages and a curved, threaded suture needle among the items jumbled across the floor. When she touched him he flinched, but he didn't shake her off, and as she worked her own demeanor thawed.

Amy couldn't help but think about what they had shared, and feel more than a little guilty for taking comfort where she could, no matter how she had felt afterwards. Here was a man capable of surviving a grenade blast, who didn't want a big deal made out of it, a man who pushed himself mercilessly yet had been traumatized by what women had done to him. And she had lashed out at him and somehow excused it in her mind as permissible when the truth was they had _both_ needed the salve of a few hours of wanting and being wanted. To pretend they didn't hide behind the false and fragile security of dysfunctional coping mechanisms.

No matter what Amy had said, those moments together had seemed like more than... _just fucking. _And that was important, somehow.

"There," she said softly, smoothing a wedge bandage against his back.

He turned, the stool creaking on its corkscrew base as he walked his legs around. She saw that his eyes had softened and there was an apology in their depths, and a touch of forgiveness. He snaked a hand around her waist and pulled her against his chest. She let herself lean into him, mindful of the stitched and bandaged, bruised and swollen wounds which spanned his already scarred hide.

They each managed to apologize without actually putting it into words, both wanting to so badly they couldn't find what it was they should say.

"You smell like burnt flesh and putrefaction," Torsch mumbled idly into her hair.

"Well," Amy croaked, "You don't exactly smell like a basket of daisies."

They smiled and Amy turned in his arms, "We have running water," she said, gazing without expression up into his face.

Torsch raised a brow ridge.

The shower they shared was functional and not nearly as sexual as either of them might have hoped, though the accommodations were certainly build for their ambitions. The room Torsch had appropriated was equipped with its own bathroom, a huge space with a large sea rock sink and an open-design shower with enough space, outlets, and water pressure to the peel paint off of a car. But, running water wasn't all that was needed and either a number of people had already put the system's water heating unit through its paces or the unit had called it quits, because all that was left was tepid at best, and that didn't last long. Seeing as humans and Sangheili enjoyed a cold shower about the same, which was to say, _not at all_, Amy and Torsch grimaced and laughed at one another and got the hell out of there as fast as they could.

It was a total mood-killer. By the time they had dried, stripped the bed, and searched unsuccessfully high and low for clean sheets, Torsch's worn out body simply gave out. He stretched across the bare mattress, pulling a fluffy duvet over his bruised body, and fell fast asleep.

Amy slipped back into her clothes and headed out in search of the truck which would have her duffel. She made it to the bottom of the stairs when Eeth barreled into the foyer casting his glance about. His face registered relief at the sight of her and he took long strides in her direction.

"Sergeant Starr," he said, out of breath, "We have... a situation."

* * *

Amy followed Eeth out onto the porch and jogged its length behind him. To her right the courtyard was loud with chaos. Elites were gathered in number, standing just beyond a protective line of their own kind who stood holding them back. As Amy passed, Allison looked up from between Vae and Jhett and motioned to the building with her head.

"Sarge!"

Cory Trice tried to squeeze between two Elites and they blocked him until Winnefrid shouted for them to let him through.

He jogged up, looking like he had run a marathon, pale-faced with sweat dripping from his brow. Amy slowed her step.

"I need... your help," the private gasped.

"Later," Eeth snapped.

"But," Cory gulped, holding his side and nearly collapsing, "They're gonna'... kill... _Antho_!"

Eeth straightened, "No, they are _not_."

Trice exhaled loudly. He looked ready to drop, "They're... not?"

The Stealth Minor huffed in exasperation, "Come, Sergeant Starr, please," he looked around at the growing discontent.

"Okay, will someone tell me what's going on?" Amy asked, planting her feet and propping her fists in her hips.

'Garen fidgeted, "Amy, we need... we need you to assume control of this matter."

"Why me? You've got enough guns and warriors here to handle anything several times over."

Eeth squirmed where he stood, "It is... difficult to explain. Please."

Amy stepped off, sensing his discomfort at discussing whatever-it-was in public, "Walk and talk, Eeth. Spill it."

Cory followed behind them as they traveled the length of the porch and Eeth struggled for words. "You see," he said, "Antho was a poor excuse for a soldier. No one understood how he got into the legion in the first place or why he was allowed to live after what he had done."

They turned through a door and crossed a room, making their way down a hall. As they neared the end they passed five sandy and soggy Elite soldiers who were standing in a line against the wall, faces downcast like shamed children awaiting punishment as they dripped onto the floor. Dak was just beyond them looking huge and pissed, massive arms folded across his chest as he flanked an open door.

"No one questioned Field Master Caaln's judgment. It was his call to make," Eeth seemed to fumble for words, pausing at the door to turn to Amy, "No one even thought... It is _forbidden_ in the legions."

"I have no idea what you're going on about," Amy said.

"Our species does not have an exaggerated degree of sexual dimorphism."

"What?"

Eeth sighed helplessly and gestured through the open door.

Amy brushed past him and into the room, but Cory was stopped just outside by Dak's hammy hand on his chest. The big Elite shook his head.

Doctor Guthrie was at the bedside, old fashioned stethoscope clamped to his head as he prompted Antho to take a deep breath and hold it. 'Sesson was shivering, tears streaming down his face. The Elite was sans armor but covered with a thin sheet. For a moment Amy's brain refused to process what she was seeing.

Antho's unarmored face was bruised, but the swelling didn't completely conceal delicate, aquiline features. His shoulders were slim, with thin, willowy arms. Beneath the sheet he had hick thighs, wide hips, and an unmistakably round abdomen.

_Holy, fuck..._

Antho wasn't fat: Antho was _pregnant._

"He's a girl," Trice said, his mouth dropping open. Eeth stepped up beside him and wrapped a hand over the human male's eyes and pulled him discretely away from the door.

"Oh, what fresh hell is this?" Starr muttered.

Out in the hall there was a crash, and a shout. Amy madte it to the door and peered out in time to see Nosalstius 'Caaln as he came seething around the corner. He was moving like an avalanche, his face the color of murder, his hands balled into fists like primed grenades. The tumor over his eye was blanched with tension and a vein across his forehead was standing out like a cord. The soldiers lining the hall turned ashen at his approach, drawing themselves up against the wall to let him pass. He glared at them as he stormed by, exercising what appeared to be not inconsiderable willpower to keep himself from killing them where they stood.

Amy stepped back out of the way and he entered the room, his face taking on a soft, worried expression as he saw Antho laying there. He rushed to her side and collected her against his chest with a protective tenderness. She grabbed onto him and sobbed as he began muttering soft endearments in Sangheili.

"Antho?" Amy asked carefully.

In a voice which was high and undeniably female 'Sesson screeched, "My name is _Phay'een_!" as if she had been holding it back for years. Which she had. She cringed at her own outburst, turning her face into 'Caaln's shoulder and sobbing, "_Antho_ was my brother."

* * *

An hour later Amy was sitting on a driftwood log next to Allison Winnefrid with the low flame and struggling embers of a dying bonfire at their feet. Starr had long forgotten about retrieving her duffel and changing clothes. It had taken some talking to get the angry Elites in the courtyard to disperse, but they had eventually wandered off, muttering and sullen. She couldn't be sure what part of the incident had them riled up the most, but they made their displeasure known at any rate and then went back about their business.

"He gave it to you?" Amy asked as she eyed the knife in Allison's hand. It was small, offwhite-ish in color, shaped like a talon, and covered in intricate carvings. "No explanation, no nothing?"

Winnefrid gave her a pointed look and Amy's expression turned wan, "Right. Dak. What was I thinking?"

"Yeah," the burly woman said, poking the pad of a finger with the blade's tip and flinching as it bit into the tough skin with little effort.

"It is a _kyutan'ken 'ghatanen,_" 'Caaln said helpfully.

The women looked up as Nosalstus approached and took a seat on a dining chair across the fire from them. Winnefrid sucked the finger she had jabbed and made a curios expression as she held the blade against the other, open palm and examined it by the firelight.

"A who?" the corporal mumbled around her finger.

"A courtship dagger," 'Caaln translated.

Allison sat there with a confused expression on her face as she looked down at the knife, still nursing her finger. Then, she looked up at Amy and across to a grinning Nosalstius then back to the bone blade. "Oh, shit," she said.

'Caaln casually lifted a stick with which to poke the dying fire, "It is a warrior-class overture of affection. Usually such blades are made from the shank of a... _particularly prized kill_."

He paused there for effect and watched to see how long it took them to make the appropriate inference.

Slowly Amy's eyes went wide and she and Allison looked at the dagger, "You don't think..." Starr began to ask, a horrified expression on her face.

"Most assuredly it is," 'Caaln rumbled.

"He made her a _Gill-dagger_?" Amy asked, "He couldn't have given her, something like, I don't know, _flowers_?"

Nosalstius cocked his head, "_Flowers_? For what purpose?"

"A necklace, then," Amy went on, "Or a bracelet?"

Nosalstius' eyes widened, "Those would be unacceptably presumptuous gifts," he said aghast.

"This is fucking _awesome_," Winnefrid cried.

'Caaln stabbed the fire and shook his head ruefully, "It is, ah, traditionally given once a courtship has been established," he paused, but Allison offered nothing so he went on, "It is a, well, a sort of ultimatum."

"Ultimatum?" Winnefrid said.

Nosalstius squirmed, "Yes, but, ah. Well, usually a warrior wishing to pursue a mate would first present her with a kill to show his hunting prowess. A decorated warrior might skip that and present her with his highest commendation. Other casts would make offering in accordance with their skills. A baker might give the object of his desire rich sweet-cakes; a clothier would give fine garments. A man of means would buy some or all of these things as a display of his wealth. All of this is an expected part of courtship, a way of inducing a woman to make detailed examination of a man's bloodlines and consider his ability to provide for her and her offspring with the hope that she will..." he stammered, "...that she will... propose marriage. _Bonding_, in a noble's case, or else terminate the affair completely."

Amy and Allison exchanged looks and Winnefrid's cheeks turned red.

"It... it means he thinks highly of you," 'Caaln offered, "And it is intended, in our culture, to be a _polite_ ultimatum," he said, clearly hoping he had not offended either of them.

"Okay," Allison drawled, drawing out the vowel sounds as she regained her composure.

She sat there staring at the blade feeling her heart pounding. She didn't know Dak thought highly of her. They barely knew each other outside of... well, they _had_ shared an amazing few hours together. She had initiated it, and she had figured that was it. It would be a one-night thing. Not that she was strictly opposed otherwise. Dak had been a surprisingly tender lover, and quite frankly, _very_ generous in bed.

"How," her voice squelched. She cleared her throat, and the usually stoid Allison Winnefrid struggled for words before finally asking, "How am I supposed to respond?"

'Caaln cocked his brow ridges and resumed poking at the fire, "That depends upon your intentions. You may do nothing, as a signal that you are thinking the matter over. But, eventually, you are expected to either return the blade, _in private_, as a way of politely declining and signaling you have no long-term intention for him, or... if you wish to accept, you would announce this symbolically, by wearing the dagger in your sheath."

Allison's eyebrows went up, "My what?'

'Caaln looked stricken, "Your, that is, unattached females of age generally have an empty sheath, that they wear around their necks, and if a male wishes to... that is... well..." he fidgeted, for the first time in his life realizing how explicate the expression was.

"That's quite the sexual innuendo, there," Winnefrid smirked.

Amy chuckled and Nosalstius seemed to relax. He smiled and rumbled with a nod, "Yes, I suppose it is."

The dogs slinked up and 'Caaln patted their sides before they settled at his feet.

There were a few beats of silence then Amy broached the inevitable, "You knew, all this time. That's why she had your dogs. Isn't it?"

It took 'Caaln some time to figure out what to say but he eventually sighed, "Yes."

"And you didn't tell anyone?" Winnefrid asked.

The Elite snorted a dismissive, sad laugh and wagged his downturned head. "No," he said, running a hand across his face, his shoulders slouching.

"Why?" Amy asked softly.

Nosalstius sat there for long moments looking at the ground, the fire crackling and throwing tiny sparks up into the dark overhead.

"I had the misfortune," he grumbled, looking at his feet, "of being a man born with something resembling a conscience."

When he looked up Amy and Allison followed his gaze to where Daniel was a distance away walking amongst the troops. "In his previous life," 'Caaln said gravely, "As Sicera 'Berovai, Daniel was a man who had no mercy in him. And," he shook his head, a pained expression tightening his face, "It was my fault she was there." His mandibles worked together as if the words left a bad taste in his mouth. He stared out at the night, and when he began speaking again his voice was weary, but tinged with the relief of finally telling a secret held for far too long.

"I was on Command Watch the night Antho 'Sesson made a fool of himself. He was drunk, no doubt celebrating his promotion to Special Operations as the lower class do, in the city of Nustaad, a place strictly off-limits to members of the 'Berovai's legion. It was nothing more than a cesspool of filth and government sanctioned debauchery."

His expression grew hard and he shifted, outstretching one leg to the side as he grumbled under his breath, "I suppose those not fit to breed have to expend their lust somewhere..." A hard exhale of breath and then, "At one in the morning a daily cycle before new soldiers were to report I was awoken by a comm from Nustaad's Constable. She informed me that he had been far too rough with a prostitute and had been apprehended after outright brawling with an establishment's security services. They had taken him into custody after he resisted arrest by the local police force. During processing he had been stupid enough to claim the legion as his assigned station so I was to come and claim him." 'Caaln shook his head, "Which I did, intoxicated and overstepping himself as he was. I managed to convince the Constable to reduce the charges to minor offenses if I would..." he suddenly stopped talking, eyes darting in his head from Amy to Allison, his expression one of a man suddenly off-kilter, "Um, well... you see," he stammered, "She was not an altogether attractive woman," he tried.

Allison propped her elbows on her knees, her chin resting on her curled fists as she leaned forward with eyes wide, feasting happily on this sudden and lurid detail.

"And, uh," 'Caaln stumbled on, "Being a resident of Nustaad she had very little chance to procure mates of military standing and, ah, well... um, that is... she wanted me to, er..."

He stopped, his face going completely purple.

Amy's eyebrows raised sharply and Allison wore a parody of the expression as she grinned, "She wanted you to _take one for the team_."

'Caaln frowned, then grumbled, "Yes." His brow ridges drew together and he rushed to explain, "But, you must understand..."

"Oh, no" Amy said, "No, no," hands raised and waving as if warding off any more, "We get it."

'Caaln's mandibles twitched and he regained his composure to go on, "'Sesson was a disgrace. What little I saw of his official record revealed him to be a typical ill-bred miscreant hatched from other ill-bred miscreants. Thieves, drunkards, addicts. His immediate kin were part of an outland group know to be composed of families who refused to conform to social norms and had been ejected from their respective clans. How he managed to make it into Spec Ops I shall never figure, but he did, and even though he had not yet reported for duty he made himself _my_ problem to deal with and I would not have him dragging my beloved legion through his muck."

Nosalstius straightened, "I did what I had to do," he growled. Then, running a hand over his head, he went on, "I picked him up from the city jail to take him home and when we made it as far as the desert lands outside the area where his kin made their semi-permanent camp, I stopped the conveyance on an empty stretch highway free of prying eyes and ears, pulled him onto the road, and beat him until there were maybe two breaths left in him. I ran a blade through his belly for good measure, patched him up, stuffed him in the car, then took him and dumped him on his uncle's doorstep to _die_. I could have taken him to the brig but I decided against it. I did not want him to ever _touch_ the legion's ships."

"You wanted him dead," Amy said simply.

'Caaln nodded, "I gave him a better death than he deserved because I did not wish to deal with it further. A later investigation into Failure to Report would find him dead and the legion would be better for it. I fully expected the matter to end there."

No one spoke when he paused. Then, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, "Imagine my surprise the following day when I came across the name _Antho 'Sesson_ on the Incoming Troop Report Roster."

He sighed, "Once the legion was securely departed from the homeworld, I had to see this for myself. And I knew the moment I laid eyes on him... her, the soldier who had reported was _not_ Antho 'Sesson. There was a familial similarity for sure, the wide-set brown eyes and the short, sloping face; the lanky build and small stature common among the impoverished class; and the muddled skin and dermal anomalies which come with severe inbreeding."

'Caaln shook his head then snorted and smiled, "I was intrigued, to say the least. Curious. Angry," his voice rose as he went on, "I made it my primary mission to find out who this person was and what he was up to and when I got this Antho 'Sesson cornered..." He sighed, shoulders slumping, "She told me everything." He shook his head, mandibles tightened together and teeth making a popping sound audible to Amy and Allison. "I wanted to be angry still, but what she told me... her brother, Antho 'Sesson, had indeed died of his injuries. She had assumed he had taken his revelry too far and gotten into a physical altercation in which he was mortally wounded. Apparently that was not behavior which would have been out of character for him. When she found his body on the front step before daybreak she saw her opportunity to escape. She drug him into her room, dressed herself in his armor and him in her smock, took what bags he had packed, then doused his body with lamp oil, set him afire, and set off to report for his assignment. She left her kin to assume that it was her body found in the ash."

"Does she know," Amy asked softly, "that you killed her brother?"

'Caaln nodded solemnly, "There was no love to be lost in that regard. Apparently he, like her uncle and other male kindred, was fond of taking liberties with her." He balled his fists and his arms trembled, "She was not even legally an adult then. But, uneducated as she was, she was smart enough to know that it was only a matter of time before she matured enough physically and..." he shook his head, "She said she would rather suffer all her brother had coming to him and die whatever death he should have faced than to have stayed and let her uncle touch her again. Knowing Sicera 'Berovai as I did I knew she had no idea what she was saying. Gods only know what he would have done to her. I felt then, as I have every day since that it was my fault she was there so..." he swallowed, "I filed a report with my commander reference the incident with 'Sesson in Nustaad, outlining the steps I had taken to keep the legion's reputation unmarred, omitting certain facts. The soldier known as Antho 'Sesson was brought up on disciplinary charges and at sentencing, since I was the one whose honor _might_ have been compromised to keep the legion's reputation secure, method of sentence was differed to me." His gaze slid back to the darkness, "My recommendation of Indefinite Punitive Assignment to the Agricultural Division was granted. On top of general duties, as an additional condition of sentence, 'Sesson was given personal charge over the welfare of my private hunting dogs."

Allison smiled, "To keep the others away from her."

'Caaln nodded, idly poking the fire, "Yes. In the Agricultural Division she was better able to disguise her female scent but, well... It was very apparent that her clan had believed females were not to be educated. She had no training and knew so very little of weapons or fighting and... what was I to do?" He shook his head. "My love of sport hunting was no secret, so every free moment being spent on the legion's agricultural ship brought no suspicion. I did my best to teach her how to hunt and to shoot and how to stand at attention, how to fight and how to address an officer and other soldiers just in case. But, I wanted to keep her hidden and alive until... until..." he seemed to trail off.

"Until she could die in battle?" Amy offered.

Nosalstius snorted a laugh, "No. Agricultural personnel are very unlikely to see ground combat, that is part of the sting of the punishment. No, I wanted to give her a chance to survive long enough for the legion return home. I intended to send her to my kin in the Xituro Mountains. Antho would have been presumed a deserter and no one would have ever known about Pha'yeen."

"Well, from the looks of her, _someone_ figured it out," Amy said.

The Field Master's mandibles drooped and he turned his face to the ground, looking sheepish, "That," he said softly, "would be _my_ doing."

"'Caaln," Winnefrid said with a cheeky grin.

"It was not _supposed_ to happen," he said in exasperation.

"Do we need to have The Talk?" Allison said in jest, "About the birds and the bees?"

Nosalstius gave her the hairy eyeball, "About the... what and the what?"

"You see," Winnefrid said, "When a boy Sangheili and a girl Sangheili like each other, and the boy Sangheili puts his..."

"Alright, that's enough," Amy laughed.

'Caaln sighed, rubbing his forehead, "It happened the night before we arrived here. I was just so damned frustrated... and she..."

"We get it," Starr chirped, "Really. Please, just stop."

They sat there in silence and then Amy asked, "Is she going to be alright?"

Nosalstius nodded, "Yes, Doctor Guthrie believes she will be fine. He admits that he is unfamiliar with our mode of reproduction, but he assumes our kind is similar to other oviparous species. That is, trauma to the mother will suspend development rather than induce spontaneous abortion, unless the egg is damaged. Gods help me," he added, "I had not even entertained the possibility that she might have survived the fall of the legion, or stopped to consider that I might have impregnated her and what that could mean for her chances of remaining undetected in the legion..."

He sat there staring at the fire, thoughts jumbling through his brain.

"What about those guys who roughed her up?" Amy asked, "What's going to happen to them?"

"I am letting General 'Varlemai handle that matter. I have had all I can stand of lives in my hands."

Amy and Allison glanced at one another.

"What does that mean, exactly?" Winnedfird prodded.

"They will be punished," 'Caaln went on, "Such a thing can not be allowed to stand, even in light of their level of knowledge. They crossed the line with what they did know. 'Sesson's life was _mine_ to take and 'Varlemai believes they intended to kill him. Her," he sighed, "They will be detained until a determination is made. She has," he stopped and seemed to do a bit of calculation in his head, "Six more weeks until the egg is due. If Pha'yeen and her child survive the soldiers will each receive fifty lashes across the back for their conduct. If she or the child die and your doctor determines it was the result of the treatment she received at their hands, they will be lashed, and then Dak 'Varlemai will break their necks."

"Shit," Starr and Winnefrid said in unison.

'Caaln nodded solemnly. He poked at the fire a few times then looked up and out into the darkness beyond the women. They turned around and saw Daniel approaching, the heavy Legion Master's cloak swaying gently as he walked. Nosalstius tossed the stick into the embers and rose, "Now, if you will excuse me," he said politely, "There is someone else to whom I owe an explanation."


End file.
